Stuff and Nonsense

Home

2012-01-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

In the winter of 1991-’92 my wife and I started discussing the idea of moving from the Dallas area.

That’s Dallas, Texas, y’all, in case I need to elucidate seeing as how there’s a Dallas, Oregon. Don’t confuse the two; Dallas, Oregon is a small town a little over 60 miles southwest of Portland, whereas Dallas, Texas is considerably larger and will be the capitol of a future post-apocalyptic petro-nation as soon as somebody green-lights the script.

Anyway. We each had lived in Texas for most of our lives at that point. Our respective families and almost everyone else we knew lived in the Dallas area. My wife Cathy worked as a legal secretary in downtown Dallas while I toiled at a Bizmart (now known as Office Max) in Mesquite as a stock clerk-slash-sales associate. Life was fine but hum-drum. Actually, looking back through mud-encrusted glasses it was boring as Hell, but that image is unfair and untrue, that’s the way things always appear after you’ve made a change you’re happy with. Our lives were perfectly fine in reality.

But we had thoughts of greener grass. We started talking about other places we would like to see, and after awhile we started researching other cities that seemed interesting. My wife mentioned Austin, Denver, Miami. I would put forward my wish to see Kansas City (either one), Chicago, Boston. New Mexico I touched upon several times, as I’d always wanted to revisit Roswell (although not born there I lived eight of my childhood years in that fabled town). We checked out a book titled Places Rated Almanac from the public library and pored over it, learning facts about the cities that attracted our curiosity. Portland (the Oregon one, though we did look at the other one too) soon became one city whose pages we revisited more than once. It sounded nearly ideal, sort of a damp San Francisco with less-ridiculous hills and real estate prices. Photos were pretty. Average temperature in August is 80 degrees! Awesome! (I had not yet learned that averages are simply truthful ways of telling lies.) All of this researching and what-iffing was great fun, a hobby to pursue on idle evenings.

I thought it was a hobby, anyway. It became obvious one day in March of 1992, when I was interrupted in my building of a lamp display at the store by a summons to the telephone, that the missus felt the ennui of life in Dallas a bit more keenly than I did.

She: “We can move to Portland in July.”

Me: “Hi, sweets… what?”

She: “We can move to Portland in July.”

Me: “Uh, heh…what?”

She: “We can!”

Me: “We can what?”

Following this initial exchange were a couple more “what”s and then I lapsed into a few “no”s and “not possible”s and then “sweetheart, really, look…”, and finally into “But…but…” and I had already lost this debate by the time I placed the receiver to my ear, of course, but see if you do better when someone clutches your paradigm by the edge and whisks it out from under you.

The thing about me, the stupid and potentially dangerous thing about me, is that you don’t have to really do a lot to get me excited and obsessed about something for which I already have a kernel of desire lurking in my head, ill-advised as it may be. I was once coaxed into jumping off the roof of a garage because the person doing the coaxing knew that I had (and still have) a dreadful fear of heights but was also fascinated by them. Makes zero sense to me, but it’s the truth. So this conversation with my wife set the cogs grinding in my brain probably by the eighth or ninth word out of her mouth even as I exhorted her to understand why it wasn’t possible to pick up and move at almost literally a moment’s notice. For the next four months I lived and breathed planning and organizing and weighing options as to packing and trailer acquisition and funding and in short driving even my spouse absolutely loco with my constant prating about the move.

You think I get all military about moving from one apartment to another? Ratchet that up times a hundred for moving halfway across the country. All I’m missing is the American flag and the riding crop.

We sold or gave away anything we felt we could do without or could easily replace. We made a ten-foot-high pile of what remained and stacked it onto an 8X10 U-Haul trailer, tying it down with ropes and tarps until the thing looked like a small yurt built with tornado debris. On the morning we left we hugged and kissed all of our friends and family goodbye (all except for my wife’s mother, who followed us to Oregon with a few household odds-and-ends and my cherished Curtis Mathes television stuffed into her Hundai), and started off roughly north-westish…

…and stopped a few hours later in Ennis, Texas, where we rented motel rooms and waited out the blistering afternoon rather than suffer in our Plymouth Acclaim, the air-conditioner of which crapped out within the first twenty miles AND for which we had to run the heater at full blast so the damned thing wouldn’t over-heat. At that point we decided to travel by night until we reached cooler climes. We didn’t see the sun again until we crossed into Colorado.

All things (and my mother-in-law) considered, it was a good trip. We love car trips and we managed to have a good time and were awed by the landscapes through which we traveled. Our route nipped a corner of New Mexico, bisected the whole of Colorado, cut a slice of Wyoming (at this point the missus became convinced we’d taken a wrong turn and had wound up on the Moon; she’s not quite as enamored of muted topographies), crossed the lower half of Idaho and then finally drove over the border into Oregon. Driving through the Columbia Gorge, though, was almost more adventure than we could stand, or maybe even survive.

She: “The load is leaning!”

Me: (Tut-tut voice) “Oh, now, no it isn’t… (turning to look behind, changing to we’re-going-to-die-screaming voice) Holy ****!”

The girthsome flapping orange mound that our load had become (we’d lost a tarp or two along the route) was lolling to one side. The wrong side. The trailer was weaving side-to-side in the wind and I was convinced we were going to go sailing off and down into the Columbia River. I reduced speed; the motorists following would have been ticked off had they not all decided to decelerate themselves and keep a safe distance from the suicidal clowns and their Dancing Big Top Wagon careening to and fro in front of them. Fortunately the gradient leveled off in another five miles and the weaving and leaning ceased. We stopped at the first opportunity to check the load (lost: one chair leg) and re-rig where prudent. A few of the motorists that had been trapped behind us roared by waving and screaming encouragement or something, and we continued on the remaining stretch toward our new home.

Crossing the Fremont Bridge, we clasped hands and exclaimed to each other “We’re Home!” Within another 25 feet we were yelling at each other.

“This says 405! Where’s Burnside?”

“Why are they all pointing at our license plate?”

“I don’t care! Where ARE we, you with the map?!”

“YOU MADE A WRONG TURN, YOU WITH THE STEERING WHEEL!!”

Of course we entered downtown precisely at rush hour. Of course we did.

It’s hard to describe the sense of disorientation we had, but I do remember climbing out of the car in front of our apartment building across SW Morrison Street from Civic Stadium (now Jeld-Wen Field), standing on the curb and gazing west at a big blue Volvo sign that I was momentarily convinced was anchored to a hillside just like the Hollywood sign. No, I am not kidding. Plus, the sun was lower in the sky than I was used to at that time of day, but that hadn’t stopped it from being 102 degrees. We were exhausted, our cats (did I mention we were carrying two cats as well? Cats that had been sedated with some drug a vet said would keep them calm, but what helped keep them calm also rolled their eyes back into their skulls and led them to gnawing my ankles as they huddled on the floorboards?) were ragged out and traumatized (the mother-in-law suggested we leave them on the side of the road in New Mexico – Cathy dissuaded me from voicing a counter-suggestion), and now we faced hauling our worldly possessions up three flights of stairs before we could even think of resting.

We managed it before nightfall, but just. When the last of the boxes were stacked in the apartment (which we had rented sight-unseen; NEVER DO THIS) and we had scrounged supper out of the road food we had left, I left my wife and her mother sitting half-asleep on our futon and descended the stairs to the sidewalk and walked the streets for awhile to cool off in the night air. I walked to 3rd and Burnside, having not been in town long enough for anyone to tell me this was not wise. I was offered stuff I’d not even heard of along the way, but I found I didn’t care and had not one thought about my safety. I even shared cigarettes and talked with a couple of drunk guys, I freely told them it was my first night in town, and felt not a hint of misgiving. The breeze was cool, there were unfamiliar scents and sounds in the air, and I was excited to be here, in Portland, in a new and alien place.

I’m serious when I say that every day has held for me at least a little of that feeling I had that night of nearly twenty years ago. I remember a lot of firsts: first time in a Fred Meyer, first view of Multnomah Falls, first visit to Vista Point, first ride on the MAX, first meal in a “Mexican” restaurant (“Hey, why is there pot roast in my enchilada?”). We’ve lived in several (oh godz several) apartments around town, I’ve had four different jobs, three different cars, three different bicycles. We do all the stuff everyone does everywhere, every day, and yet every day I venture out I remain a bit startled by this cool and interesting city and the beautiful landscape. Even when the economy tanked and we had convinced ourselves that we should live elsewhere for a change, it seemed the city itself determined that we were wrong, and haunted us until we returned.

That’s what Home does to you.

Eat, Play, Loaf

2011-11-27T12:05:00.000-08:00

How was your Thanksgiving? Mine was filled with carbohydrates and preteen girls all a-squeal, so it was a triptych of intestinal, aural, and mental degradation. Not that either the food or the young ladies was bad, it's just that my tolerance for both ill-considered self-indulgence and cacaphony was tested to the nigh-breaking point. Our home is cozy in the way someone says when they mean “small”, and at one time there were eight children camped out in the living room watching Disney Channel or playing games or defacing the pictures of loathed teen celebrities in Tiger Beat (a zombie apocalypse pales in comparison to a horde of prepubescent girls armed with scissors and Magic Markers, it's the stuff of nightmares).

The culmination of all this holiday merriment was a birthday party, mercifully staged in the clubhouse of our apartment community. Ever try vacuuming tracked-in pine needles and glitter off of carpet? “Sisyphean” is a word that comes to mind (or does now that I looked it up). Also soft drinks, birthday cake, and ADHD are not good bedfellows, as in I'd suggest burning the bed before any kid gets near it.

I had to have a break, so when the opportunity presented itself, I took the bike out for a ten-mile spin through the neighborhood. Autumn, bar none, is my favorite season in which to ride or walk. The smell of the air in itself intoxicates, and then in turn it's layered by holiday cooking smells as I wheel through the streets. I'm a vehicular cyclist, meaning I use the road as an automobile would because I feel it's the safest way to travel, but when I can I love to roll the side streets, particularly when I have no set destination. Even on a bike, there's a certain tunnel-vision that takes over when commuting to work, so riding just for the fun of it will always be the most rewarding. This was the first ride in three weeks and it felt great. I can't let that much time pass between rides.

*******************

You know what's the enemy of writing? Twitter. I just sidetracked myself for ten minutes, scrolling through my feed instead of working on this post. I'll have to find the discipline to avoid distractions like that, but these Internets, they are succubi. I'll be unsure of the usage of a word, or be looking for an apt analogy (see “sisyphean”), and off I am to Wikipedia, where likely as not I'll become mired in a side link and end up reading about HMS Tantalus, yeah I kid you not, I went from Greek mythology to a British submarine in one click. See what I'm up against? I've very recently entertained the notion of doing some copy-writing for “mad money” ('cause I'm mad I ain't gots no money), and if I give that a serious go I'm just going to have to put blinders on, or better yet write it out long-hand before committing it to the pixels.

Yeah, I'll let y'all know how it works out.

Shadow and Light

2011-10-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween, kids! May your costumes be original and hand-made and your frights bedevil in only the most wholesome of ways. Cavort in your whimsical finery, or out of it, I don't judge. Occupy Your Sidewalks, hang upside-down from the trees and chant “Nine Nine Nine!” (yeah, it's stupid, Michelle Bachmann might be the only one to get it, and that's not exactly a “win”). Whatever. ENJOY, is what I'm saying.

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Not for trick-or-treating (you won't see me answering the door with a bucket of candy in hand with which to treat adorable scamps because there haven't been “adorable scamps” since Our Gang comedies were brand-new; curmudgeons, however, are perpetual and eternal), but because I've always been attracted to the night side of nature ever since I was a kid. It's not really that I believe in ghosts or devils or monsters, and I'm not drawn necessarily to brutality and acts of cruelty so prevalent in horror films (although I have a few favorites). I'm thrilled by the concept – however unsupported by modern science -- of realities close but unseen. Masked bogeymen lunging through doorways with power tools and that kind of thoughtless mayhem don't give me the frisson that a whispered name in an empty room delivers, the sense of not being alone; of quiet, not-quite-silent, presence.

During my childhood I had numerous episodes of what I just recently learned is called hypnagogia. In bed at night I would perceive sounds and shadows in my peripheral vision, and on several occasions experienced loud shouts and sudden blows across my back. I would leap out of bed, certain that my brother was playing pranks or that my father was trying to wake me by shouting and shaking me, only to find myself alone. I went so far as to search under the bed, sure that I would find someone hiding there. Nothing. No one.

I also suffered sleep paralysis quite often. THAT'S fun. Waking up in the night not being able to move or breathe. I recommend you try it at least once.

These episodes gradually came less frequently as I matured, and as an adult I rarely have them. One of the most powerful experiences, however, actually happened in my mid-twenties, in Abilene Texas, during an afternoon nap (I had called in sick that day, but of course I wasn't really). Lying on my back on my bed I became aware of a shimmering presence standing near, and I found I couldn't move. The apparition was blinding, I couldn't look directly at it, but I perceived that it meant to touch me with a flat, rectangular or square object it held. I remember thinking that my brother had entered my apartment and was showing me a record album he'd bought (my brain scrabbling desperately to make sense of it all), and then I remember thinking that I was fucked (excuse me, when you're lying paralyzed on your back with a glaring ghostly form hovering over you, you aren't likely to assume the best scenario for an outcome, gnome sane?) I was only able to turn my head away and moan...

...and no shimmering, no apparition, sunlight slanting through the window, birds outside chirping their happy little un-haunted asses off. I found I could move, and I did. Within seconds I was on my way down the stairs, one empty leg of my jeans flapping behind. I spent the rest of the day in Sambo's, regaling disbelieving yet mostly kindly indulgent friends with my tale of terror. Toward sundown I had a friend drive me home (this still strikes me as stupid – why go back as it's getting dark?), and we sat in his truck staring up at the window of my third-floor apartment. He declined to go up with me; he said it was better that I faced it alone and that I'd have to sooner or later. I've always preferred to view this as wisdom on his part rather than cowardice, because hey, that's the kind of friend I am.

Since it was the second floor landing's turn to have the lightbulb I had to ascend to my apartment in darkness, whereupon I pushed the door open (it had been unlocked since my abrupt departure) and felt around for the light switch while still standing outside. Once inside all the way, I crept around all two of the rooms (three if you count the bathroom, which I also inspected, drawing back the shower curtain so fast and hard I had to re-hook it to the rod) and then sat on the bed and just...looked around. For about half an hour. Without blinking. It was during one of the slow-motion sweeps of the eyes that a bath towel I'd left hanging over the back of an old naugahyde recliner near the foot of the bed chose to slip down into the seat. I am not exaggerating when I say I was halfway down the stairs still clutching the bed cover before I came to some dim shade of my senses.

That day and night have never left me. In these later years I haven't suffered anything even remotely that terrifying, although I still have dreams vivid enough to follow me out of my bed before I realize the events in the dreams aren't actually happening. Those dreams are usually of the unpleasant sort, yet I've always loved all of my dreams in hindsight if not while experiencing them.

*************************************************************************************************

Portland and surrounds lend to a certain eerie atmosphere. The mist, the rain, and the architecture all conspire to suggest an other-worldly watchfulness. I don't think my description does it justice, really, but Portland is a spooky town. It's certainly had monsters in residence (look up Jerry Brudos sometime if you have the stomach for it), and there are many reputedly haunted locations – even a downtown Burger King (really, if I'm lucky enough to come back and haunt some place, my sights will aim just a tad higher...but wait, ghosts can't gain weight, right? SCORE!) So while watching the premier episode of “Grimm” last night I couldn't help but feel that Portland itself, as a character in its own right, gave the best performance. And honestly, I wouldn't blame my city for having a fit, flouncing back to its trailer, and holding out for better conditions. “Grimm” simply isn't up to Portland's potential, it really isn't. We need a better showcase along the lines of “An American Horror Story” rather than this lazy excuse to sell cars and dish soap. This is of course only my opinion, and I'll concede that at least it's better than that flaccid “Life Unexpected” – which I've just discovered via Wikipedia was set in Portland but filmed in Vancouver. Guh. You win pretty much by default, “Portlandia”.

Get out and embrace the strange.

Cold

2011-10-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

Terrific. I have my first cold of the season.

Colds are in a way worse than influenza (to my mind) because I can't justify staying home from work just because I'm annoyed. Flu takes me down hard and I don't feel badly at all staying home bundled up in my Snuggie sipping home remedies and watching what I like to call “unemployed TV” (which back in the day featured “ChiPS” and “Love Boat” interlaced with truck-driving school commercials but now has expanded to include cooking shows, DIY shows, QVC, and a few dozen true-crime channels with a scattering of “You Have Mesothelioma! Lawyer up!” ads; life used to be so simple). With a cold I just feel like crap but also feel ridiculous whimpering about it. So I go to work and give everyone with whom I work something ELSE for which they can be annoyed with me.

Health, namely my own, has been on my mind lately due mostly to the fact that my insurance through my place of work has changed. This means that I have to go soon to meet with a new physician, and really, I would rather not. I'm okay going to a doctor when I have a specific malady to address (that is a lie, but I would rather go to a doctor than hear the missus ASK me to go to a doctor fifty-two times a day, because who has that kind of stamina?), but a meet-and-greet just to give a stranger the opportunity to point out flaws in my lifestyle is offensive and it makes me want to not co-operate. Several years ago a doctor with whom I hadn't been in the room two minutes actually reached out his scrawny underweight finger and POKED me.

See, I have this thing I call my sphere. It's a personal bubble of influence. It's MINE. It has an event horizon, detectable via the furrow-ness of my brow. The more furrowed, the worse for everyone involved. It doesn't promise violence, but it does mean feelings are liable to be singed. I can't help it, it was there at birth, I think. I actually don't even like to have people stand too close to me but it's forgivable if it's inadvertent, but if you POKE me, or touch my shoulders, suddenly I don't care if you might suddenly burst into flame. Blame it on personal issues, problems with trust, misanthropy, what have you, but it is what it is. Anyway, the poking doctor, that was the first and last consultation he and I shared, and whenever I made appointments at that clinic afterward I would state loudly “I have an appointment with any doctor here EXCEPT DR. POKEY.” I would state this while leaning over the counter, my voice directed down the hallway behind the (cringing) receptionist. I never saw that physician again, or at least not his whole face. I think I saw half of it once, one eye tracking my progress past his door and down the hall, but when I turned to look the door had closed. I don't care. Muhfuh POKED me.

Another reason I'm not thrilled to see a doctor this time around is that I have to schedule THAT appointment soon. Yeah, THAT one. The “let's all trot up the down escalator” one. The “let us all climb up the water-slide, shall we?” appointment. In the age of diagnostic beds and iPads a la Star Trek, why must we still revert to this barbarism? It MUST be unpleasant for everyone in the room and not just the patient/victim, right? I know that the reason the consulting-room probes with the glove take place so fast is because the doctor doesn't trust him-or herself not to throw up, so actually feeding a hose through someone and then taking PICTURES must be some kind of special Hell for all involved, surely. Dr. McCoy never had to do that shit, so medical profession, get with the program! So, no, I don't look forward to this procedure at all, family history be damned.

It just occurred to me that I may have written about making an appointment before. Like, two years ago. Yeah, I put it off.

Cold or no cold, I'm taking a walk today after the household chores. Nothing beats a relatively dry autumn day in Portland. I would take a ride on the bike, but I've learned that biking, for me anyway, just invites more respiratory grief. I wish it wasn't so. I only got to ride one day this week for one reason or another. Speaking of which, I got a reminder this last week that locking your bike wherever you are is a very good thing. Some miscreant actually walked INTO the warehouse at work and stole a work-mate's bike during business hours. So no more parking my bicycle in sight of the docks, and I secure it with the two locks I'll always be carrying from now on.

That's it and that's all. L8s.

Wet and Dry

2011-09-18T09:51:00.000-07:00

Summer is over, the wet hath arrived. No matter the Equinox hasn't officially thrown it's veil, this is as abrupt a change as I've ever seen. Oh, I know it'll warm up again, and perhaps even flirt with 80 degrees over the next two or three weeks, but the leaf has fallen.

I haz a haiku!

Summer's fading light;
Colors in the Great Wheel turn
To Winter shadows

Three years ago I had convinced myself that I was bored with the gray and the rain here, and so I set out for drier climes. Eighteen months spent in the desert of the southwest (glorious as that landscape is, and I would recommend at least a visit to anyone!) wasn't the fix I had imagined, at least not a permanent one. New Mexico's rainstorms are wonders, at times blinding sheets obscuring the far side of the road and rushing through suddenly seething arroyos, but they tend only to taunt and then fly away, their footprints left to dry within minutes in the aridity. Rarely are such tempests seen in the Willamette Valley; our rain tends to hang around like an amiable deadbeat. It should be included as a character in the credits of Portlandia, should they ever bother to show it actually raining. Have they ever shown it raining? If they haven't, they are omitting a rather essential facet of authenticity. Anyway, the rain needs an agent.

Soon the time will change and I'll be riding the bike from work in the dark. I always look forward to this. For one thing, “Bike Town” notwithstanding, the number of cyclists (and pedestrians too) braving the paths and lanes tends to drop fairly significantly, and call me selfish but I mind that not at all. For another, night riding just simply has an added element of intrigue and an enhanced sense of adventure. Most adult Americans haven't ridden a bicycle since childhood (and this is sad but it's not my point this time around) and so can't fathom the idea of themselves commuting via bicycle, and doing so after dark?? Madness! I enjoy being a member of a minority, especially one perceived as dangerous (even if only to himself). And honestly, riding a bicycle on the city streets at night is more dangerous – just not overwhelmingly so – and so there's an element of derring-do. “You rode your bike in this??” is a phrase I used to hear quite a lot, and I would have to keep myself from placing my hands on my hips and throwing my head back in a heroic guffaw. Well, yes, once or twice I failed to keep myself from doing this, but I found that it ruined the effect, people seeming to prefer humble bravery. Bah. What's the point, then?

Approaching the rainy dark riding season, I'll have to visit the bike shop to replenish a few items. This year I'm buying a pair of shoe covers, because wet shoes suck. Also a helmet cover. Maybe a new rain jacket. Uh-oh, this is what always happens. Book stores and bike shops = bad juju for a light wallet. Damned economy. The missus instead wants me to spend money on work clothes. It's this sort of pragmatism that's the bane of the modern American marriage. Perhaps it's even proof of an indifferent Universe; if The Intelligence(s) truly wanted mortals to do the logical thing all the time, wouldn't s/he/they have made it more fun? Fuh.

Lates!

Imagine-ish (Un-Lennon-y)

2011-08-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

I know a lot of Portlanders will disagree, but I don't mind this kind of summer at all. Overcast and cool in the morning and sun breaks in the late afternoon suits me just fine. We haven't hit 90 degrees yet, while seemingly the rest of the nation suffers under The Magnifying Glass O' The Godz. As I type this it's 63 degrees at 10 a.m. and a high of 82 or so expected for the entire week. Nice. The weird thing is that under overcast skies the greenery is more radiant than in sunlight. I'm sure there's a scientific explanation for that, or maybe it's my imagination. Regardless, it's cool.

Know what I wish? What I really, really wish? I'll tell you what I wish, what I really, really wish. (This is blatant blog entry padding; sue me, I'm a bit rusty). I would like a law requiring that all political ads be relegated to ONE television channel and ONE radio station. This way those who believe that political ads provide the tools needed for thoughtful political discourse may have a station or channel on which they may listen to or watch all the microphone-gnawing and feces-throwing they could want, while the rest of us are spared. Out of necessity and in the spirit of fairness, these outlets would be immune to Neilsen ratings and public outcry so that no charges of bias may be entertained. The only requirement I would dictate is that the one station and one channel serve ALL parties. You want mud-slinging and fear-mongering, be prepared for a two/three/more-the-merrier-way street. Equal time for everyone, but out of earshot of the rest of us who actually realize political ads are NOT reliable avenues to the truth. The Discover Nought Channel. Have at it.

Pardon the rant. Blame it on my recent re-reading of Robert A. Heinlein's Starship Troopers, which, unlike Paul Verhoeven's entertaining (yet so loosely adapted from the source material that it's kind of like that Star Trek episode “Mirror, Mirror”, where it's Opposite Day and Spock has a goatee so you know he's bad...but not REALLY that bad after all) movie of the same name, is a novel of socio-political philosophy all dressed up in battle-rattle. Let me be honest, I read this book for the first time at 14 years of age, and after reading the last page I flung it across the room. My spoiled American teenage mind was appalled with what seemed at the time to be a jingoistic rant (plus not enough bug shooting!), and the world that the author limned struck me as a sort of totalitarian Hell where individual freedoms weren't tolerated. All the stuff about discipline, and duty, and responsibility for one's actions went right over my head at the time. I found the idea insulting and even scary because I knew that there was no room in that kind of society for the likes of me.

Man, what a difference age and experience makes. Heinlein's Starship Troopers Earth is a stern one and doesn't suffer fools or the selfish gladly, but it's orderly and efficient and the citizens and civilians (the privilege of citizenship is bestowed only upon those who have served in the military or in some capacity of public service, and wins them the right to vote and hold public office, whereas simple civilians cannot) know their place within it. There are some analogues in the modern world. Singapore comes to mind, with it's government's insistence on public standards and cleanliness.

Don't get me wrong, I think individual liberties are important. My objection is that they're too often taken for granted, and too few of us exercise the discipline it takes to wield those liberties judiciously, to bear in mind the greater good. It's a bit like juxtaposing the Wiccan exhortation “An it harm none, do as thy wilt” with Aleister Crowley's more base “Do what thou will shall be the whole of the law”.

Am I boring? No, I'm not running for office. What Groucho said.

The Bike Commute Challenge is coming up. I'll probably do it this year, but no one at my place of employment rides regularly so I won't have a team per se. I participated a few years ago, but can't for the life of me recall why I didn't in subsequent years until now (well, I do know about two of them; I was in Albuquerque). Anyway, if anyone in Portland and surrounds reads this thing, please consider dusting off your bike (or buying one, or borrowing one), and get out on the streets. Usher in the Autumnal Equinox by doing something excellent for yourself and for the Earth.

The "kingdom of Heaven" is a condition of the heart - not something that comes "upon the earth" or "after death."
-Friedrich Nietzsche

Solitary Man

2011-05-08T09:28:00.000-07:00

I should have been in here beginning this entry an hour ago, but I got snagged on an episode of “Biography” (Kirstie Alley, and keep your fat jokes to yourself because I'm a fan of the lady, and hey, do me a favor and Kerriganize the next paparazzo you happen across will you, because some people shouldn't have the right to walk without a limp. Thanks).

Women hopping around in their scanties and a pair of Skechers; who are these ads for? All the women I know are practical types who wouldn't (1) take off their sneakers, (2) take off their clothes, and (3) put the shoes back ON so they can dance in celebration of their self-recognized hotness. So are the ads actually for husbands and boyfriends and stalkers who would proffer these weird-looking kicks as gifts to the women in their lives in the hopes that they might catch a glimpse of said celebratory sashays? I notice men are never seen looking on in these ads, so may we infer cameras secreted in bookshelves? This rumination of mine has taken a worrisome turn, so let's move on.

I have done an excellent job of looking after myself while the missus has been away in Texas for her family reunion. I have cleaned out cat boxes four times per day and remembered to feed and water the feline horde, swept, vacuumed, dusted, taken out trash and recycling, kept the bed made, washed dishes and maintained an uncluttered kitchen and an un-bepubed bathroom. All I have to manage to do at this point is remember the route to the airport so that I may retrieve my spouse Monday evening. I'm quite happy with myself. See, she does EVERYTHING, to the point that I've forgotten how. I'm being serious here, if (the godz forfend) I survive my wife I'm screwed if something really critical isn't in that folder she keeps in the file cabinet, the one labeled “ROB! Do All This Stuff Or You'll Be Wandering The Streets Within Six Weeks Wrapped In An Army Blanket Wearing Ill-Fitting Trousers I Didn't Buy For You!”. It's a thick folder. I'm kind of bummed about that.

I should perhaps have been packing a few things in preparation for the move this next weekend, but I somehow found other things to do, like eat and watch television. I had decided to treat myself to hot dogs in her absence (she's not that fond, but I consider them a food group all on their own), so I've been eating a LOT of hot dogs the last three days. I will concede to the fact that this is a bad idea. I know better. I'll do penance. Actually have already done a bit of penance already, because while trying to catch up with “Treme” on HBO a couple nights ago (it's a series set in New Orleans) I thought it would be cool to boil some hot 'n' spicy sausage dogs and eat them with a couple chasers of bourbon. My tongue still feels like I'd flailed it with a razor strop.

Today: Try the route to the gym on the bike. Work out. Go get the key to the new apartment to take a few measurements and to see how work progresses (the past occupants were less-than-enthusiastic housekeepers). Come home, read the newspaper, try to finish KRAKEN, fall asleep on the sofa (not the author's fault; afternoon + rain + book + sofa = coma). Wake up for dinner.

“Project Runway” is on. Must stop that noise NOW. Or watch it. Decisions.

Enjoy your Sunday.

I Opine, You Nod (and blink drowsily)

2011-04-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

Some notes:

Tea Partiers, please pay no attention to the follicularly-challenged billionaire. He is fucking with you. I regret the blunt language, but really, he is engaging in ego masturbation before our very eyes. He just doesn't bother with the curtained window and the coin slot. Seriously, if this man actually becomes a contender for the office, I will chew one of my many hats (and ya'll know how much I love my hats!), and then start saving up for expatriation. BC, here we come.

If I was aware that people in giant flying tin cans were relying upon me to bring them safely to solid earth, I would prop my eyelids open with toothpicks and sit on an electric griddle. OR I would quit that job because I would realize that I haven't the discipline for it. Bad enough nodding off at one's station, but settling down with a blankie? Negligence at the risk of public safety should be prosecuted, and I would include the employer in that as well, for allowing such a work culture to exist.

Dear Midwestern and Southeastern United States of America: the gods are REALLY mad at you, hence the flooding and tornadoes and other weather stuff. Maybe it's that Tea Party thingy. Just a thought.

There is a page on Facebook titled “I HATE PORTLAND OREGON!!!!” (because you know someone is serious when they use that many exclamation points). I hereby would like to ask my public if it would be too rude for me to start a “I HATE THE I HATE PORTLAND OREGON FACEBOOK PAGE!!!!!”. I would take it seriously. You can tell by the exclamation points (five!!!!!).

Remember that American Godzilla movie from a few years ago? Watch that pretender to the throne get pwn'd by the Master here. Also, the villain's Prince-style prance is pretty awesome at the end. (I do realize that this is Geek Supreme, but I don't care Me and the OGZ go way back.)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There is a dove somewhere nearby in the trees around our apartment.

I never noticed the doves here before we moved to Albuquerque (hard for any bird here to compete vocally with the jays and the ravens and the gulls) but now that we're back in Oregon, hearing doves gives me a weird sense of cognitive whiplash, a momentary displacement. Not unpleasant, just...odd. Unexpected. The sound of doves was the first thing I noticed upon waking up sprawled on the bare carpet of our new apartment on the very first morning in Albuquerque. Doves everywhere. I remember thinking to myself “Doves? Didn't expect THAT. Doves don't fit my idea of desert dwellers. Eagles, hawks, buzzards, road runners, those are macho desert birds! Doves?” Considering there seemed to be more doves in Albuquerque than any other birds, maybe doves are tougher than I assumed. Maybe they're the Rod Steigers of birddom, what do I know?

Last weekend's Saturday was as a Saturday should be: equal parts vigor and languor. I walked five miles, went home to a nice lunch and a short(ish) nap, then later drove downtown to friends for a klatch. Great day.

The walk wasn't as much a challenge as I thought it might be (save for a “hot spot” on the sole of my left foot that would have become a blister after another mile or so), so I was able to just enjoy being outdoors amongst all the other grateful folk who traveled the Springwater. It was chilly but not distractingly so, and the sun broke through the cloud cover on a few occasions, teasing with the promise of a bright and proper Spring any day now.

I'd like to take a little time here to stress a couple of points as to Springwater etiquette, if I may.

1.If I accidentally pet your dog's head, you are either passing too close or your leash is too long.
I love all animals, but please bear in mind that some others do not. Please keep your doggie close and swing wide when passing. Thanks.

2.If you pass me on your bicycle close enough for my elbow to reach your throat, you are
passing too close. Please assume that I like dogs better than I like you. Thanks.

Anyway.

Yesterday's Saturday was somewhat less vigorous. Ran errands, took a drive, finally got around to watching 127 HOURS (now on my fave film list). The missus is still recuperating from a surgery, so we decided it would be mostly a day in. I love to get out, but I absolutely hate leaving her on her own sometimes because it feels selfish even when she insists it isn't. Hopefully she can afford to be more ambulatory in another week or so. I know she's sick of it.

Today I may cross the new-ish bridge on the Springwater and head east for a few miles. I haven't gone that direction in a long time, and I have a new pair of hiking shoes to break in. Or maybe I'll ride it. Haven't decided. Right now: breakfast. Bacon and eggs and toast, old skool.

L8rz

Walk Don't Run

2011-03-14T10:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I walked a 5K with friends, participating in the 33rd edition of the Shamrock Run. No running for me this time; I didn't adequately prepare (even though I kept saying I was going to train properly for the event, I instead thought about training really hard for weeks; no kidding, I put MAXIMUM effort into thinking about training, but it didn't help at all. So much for visualization!)

It was raining. It was cold. I slipped on a metal plate and fell down before I even got across the Hawthorne Bridge on the way to the event. It was great fun. That reads like sarcasm, but it really was great. Cheerful damp people in funny green hats and funny green clothing (except for me, having forgotten the whole Irish theme thing somehow, but I was safe; Portlanders, being very aware of personal space, are not pinchy folk). I most often avoid crowds whenever possible, but there was overall a very pleasant positive buzz and I never felt annoyed or uncomfortable.

My personal experience this year would have been nearly perfect had it not been for an attack of intestinal distress that had me wondering if I would finish without a hideous incident. Why my innards decided to twist and shout like a knot of earthworms in a hot tin can on that morning of all mornings is a mystery, but twist they did, and so I was rather more than ordinarily motivated to finish. Had the event started on time (rather than forty minutes late, forcing most of a crowd of 32,000 wet and frigid souls to stand huddled in the elements), I wouldn't have been quite so worried, but as it stands I was practically walking sitting down as I crossed the finish line if you can visualize such a thing (but why would you want to?).

Then, after finding my missus waiting for me nearby on the sidewalk, I discovered that downtown merchants, instead of taking advantage of the traffic trudging or scampering by, chose instead to CLOSE their establishments for the day. W, as they say, TF? No restrooms for blocks! We paused at Kettleman's to purchase a bulging bag of bagels so that I had something wet and disintegrating to clutch as we slogged along the sidewalks of downtown (yes, I do realize this makes little sense, and I have no defense other than my wife wanted bagels and I didn't want to argue and thus let my concentration wander from it's primary task, that being to keep from voiding on the pavement), and continued to search for an open ANYTHING that included a restroom available for patrons.

FINALLY we spied a Carl's Jr. I have actually been inside a Carl's Jr. one other time, and I'll say that the slippery burger I had really was pretty tasty, although the missus was less than impressed. Although at this point food was the very last thing on my mind, I thought we were going to have to buy something to eat in order to be allowed access to the restrooms, but apparently the staff really don't police that very well...

...and really, that is a pity, because little did I know that the downtown Carl's Jr. is favored by many members of the downtown addict community, one of which was entering the ONE stall as I bustled in.

Oh godz.

A word about this stall. It's obviously meant to facilitate physically challenged users. All well and good, I'd be dismayed to find any other style of accommodation. But this stall was large enough to facilitate a physically challenged couples' skate. They could have erected one perfectly spacious handicapped stall AND a standard-size stall side-by-side, but nay, they instead built ONE stall large enough to store your kayak while you conduct your business.

Not that the fellow in the stall didn't use all that space. No, he filled quite a bit of it as he shed four layers of clothing before settling in for a leisurely whatever. FanTAStic. Rather then hover in the otherwise small space, I walked back out and stood as casually clenched as I could manage and chatted with the missus. Every five minutes or so I walked back into the restroom, fiddled with the faucets, stood in front of the urinals, and then walked back out to fume as silently as I could while my wife muttered her sympathies.

After several more excruciating minutes I heard a flush from within, and fearing at this point that some other patron would beeline his way in ahead of me I trotted through the door and straight into the stall as the rather large individual made his way out (I don't have a description of him to relate, I was FOCUSED). Pausing only long enough to wish I were blind, I turned my face from the commode and adopted a squatting position, wishing that levitation was actually a possible phenomenon in our physics-shackled reality.

I'll pause now. Ponder fields of flowers. Idyllic meadows. Lambs going “baaa”.

Upon my exit, feeling once again hale and rosy-cheeked, my missus confirmed our suspicions about the fellow I'd followed. He had come out of the restroom barely ambulatory, swaying as he made his way to a garbage can where he fished out a used drink cup and then staggered his way to the soda dispensers for a “refill”. Blarg.

We found and boarded our bus soon after (who would drive downtown to an event like this? Seriously?), and made our way back to where the missus had parked the car. Fortunately the bag of bagels hadn't become a thoroughly sodden lump during our tramp through downtown, so after a shower we toasted a couple and munched to the television news before retiring for a short nap.

All things considered, I've had worse Sundays. I'm looking forward to next year's Shamrock event, and in the meantime I'll start looking for other vaguely athletic organized activities. Time to start training.

No, really.

Running My Mouth

2011-02-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

This morning I'm listening to 100.3 The Peak, an Albuquerque radio station, because I'm having a fit of nostalgia. I chose this station because, other than University of New Mexico's KUNM, this is the only place on the dial that won't play classic rock (Have we discussed this? I'm sure we have, but for those just joining, I'll explain that my stint in Albuquerque has perhaps forever cured me of anything like lust for classic rock. Classic rock and I are OVER).

The downside is that The Peak plays Katy Perry, whose voice is nice but whose music is about as lowest-common-denominator as they come. “California Girls” was cute, but I really would rather she keep her Peacock-cock-cock musings to herself. The missus bought the CD and after one listen gave it to me to foist onto some other unsuspecting soul (Sorry, Juli!). I thank the radio godz for KINK FM, which is probably the bane of hormonal tweeners everywhere and that's just the way I like it, even if I have to hear those two damned Spearhead songs five times per day each.

Now Jackie, Tony, and Donnie (the drive-time crew at The Peak) are discussing a recent incident wherein some miscreant at Sunshine Market offered an unsuspecting woman a yogurt sample containing his own special ingredient. Lovely. SO glad I tuned in this morning.

Speaking of breakfast, we were recently stunned to find that Hatch green chiles are hella expensive to ship to the Northwest. This is disappointing, because the missus made quiche muffins with green chiles while we were living in ABQ, and THEY ROCK EXPONENTIALLY. Now she's forced to use jalapeños. They're delicious in their own right, but just not the same. Bummer. I would have thought you could find them in the dusty “ethnic” aisles of our supermarkets here, but nope.

Breakfast for me so far this morning is coffee. I tend to fall completely off the breakfast wagon on non-work days, which is terrible. Since we're shortly to embark on errands this morning, perhaps we'll stop into Spring Creek Coffee House for a scone or two and MORE coffee, that is unless the missus is inspired to go to Five Guys. I'll try to dissuade her (I love 'em too, I just don't want to LIVE there), but I don't often win this battle. Plus I'm not really what you would call a role model in les occupations gustatives. This is not a good thing at all because...

...I am so going to suck at this Shamrock Run thingy if I don't start seriously training for it. Between schedule conflicts and not paying proper attention to what I stuff down my neck AND this weird fatigue I've had for most of the week (not feeling sick at all other than feeling like I weigh two thousand pounds and could fall asleep standing up; hope I didn't run afoul of a deer tick or something!), I haven't walked a step, let alone run one. If I want to make it across the finish line before crickets chirp, I have to get busy. I haven't run a mile in many years, and I've signed up for the 5K (idiot). As evidenced by the course map...

http://www.shamrockrunportland.com/map5k.htm

...a considerable portion of this trot is up Broadway, and I've been told it's a bastard with a generous dollop of bitch thrown in for flava. Well, great. I hope that my Albuquerque lungs haven't completely deflated by the time this dubious adventure starts.

So train I will, starting this week. The proper way, it seems, is to walk at a brisk clip, then run a short distance, then put head down near knees and cuss, then repeat until one's leg tendons feel like a harp thrown down a flight of stairs. The anticipation is palpable up in here.

Beer and chowder will be offered at the finish line; maybe I'll just stay out of sight for an hour and then dump a bucket of water over my head and jog by. Nah. I'd get caught. I always get caught.

Seize the day.

Random Blather

2011-01-10T11:25:00.001-08:00

I’m contemplating doing something crazy-technical to my external back-up drive, so I’m going to do this thing instead.

I’ve committed to running the Shamrock Run in March. “Running” may be gilding the lily somewhat, since I adopted long ago a sort of Cro Magnon philosophy: running is a mode of escape and pursuit, and if one has not either caught or escaped from something after a hundred yards or so, exerting oneself further is unnatural and just plain showing off. I’m a humble man (Was that a sneeze? Bless you!), and I find ostentatious displays of physicality distasteful, if I’m the one displaying. And yet last week my traitor mouth just flew open and my fellow traveler tongue flapped the words “I’ll do that!” into the atmosphere, within earshot of several witnesses. Damn it.

So now I have to get busy tuning my long-idle physique ( Hey, I’ve been busy moving halfway across the nation AGAIN and re-establishing myself as a viable citizen with legitimate means of support. I’ve been freakin’ TIRED, yo.) Rain or shine, I have to hit the trails and tracks, and when not doing that or working, I have to attend the gym regularly. That, and get on the bike more often, something else I haven’t done in some time. To that end, I have to get the bike in for a tune-up, as it’s been something like two years since the last one and I’m starting to experience some bothersome chain skips.

So. Lots of activity outdoors, in all weathers. Core work. Lifting. Road time. I even bought myself my own calendar (I had to; we have one already but the spouse writes herself lots of notes and uses a big fat pen). I’m setting myself schedules and sticking to them. Stop me if you’ve heard this before.

************************************************************************************

Some other nonsense:

Dear Westboro Baptist Church,

I detest you at a sub-atomic level. Yes, even my muons hate you. Know why that bothers me? It’s because it draws me closer to being like you, and farther from the God you keep insisting hates me and a considerable portion of the Earth’s population.

Please consider evolving. Thanks,

-Rob

I sent the above to their website (http://www.godhatesfags.com/), and invite all to do likewise. Useless, but it feels good.

Dear Sarah Palin,

From now on, please think hard about what you and your advisors post to the internet or advertise elsewhere. No, I mean REALLY REALLY HARD. CONCENTRATE.

P.S. Tell all your friends and supporters, too. (those two terms are NOT mutually inclusive, see?)

Thanks,

-Rob

Dear Cost Plus World Market,

Why you gotta sell stuff like this to impressionable middle-aged women wandering your aisles without their husbands and their pesky opinions? WHY? I’m afraid to go into my own dining room in the dark now.

Yours Trepidatiously,

-Rob

Really, that’s all.

Enjoy your week.

Now and Again

2010-11-21T12:12:00.000-08:00

There is no greater sensory adventure to be had than in Portland in Autumn.

Every morning I get to see the streets bracketed by the golds and reds of the trees, and see and hear the skittering of crisp leaves – when they aren’t stuck flat by rain – along the pavement. Seems a pity that half the time I’m boxed away from most of it when driving; walking and cruising on a bicycle are preferable by far. Smell the damp air. Listen to the gulls and crows. Notice how the bright colors don’t seem to clash with the industrial gothic forms of bridges and railways, but how they instead seem to enhance each other.

I’m working at the job I had to leave before we moved to Albuquerque. Full time and (the godz willing) permanent. We’re living in the same apartment community we’d left. I drive and bike and walk the same routes in the neighborhoods. It’s like I’m Bobby Ewing in the shower. Or maybe I mean Pam Ewing discovering Bobby Ewing in the shower? Whatev. What’s cool is that it feels to us as it did when we first moved here in 1992. Obviously we missed this place so much more than we realized.

It’s squeaky, this economy of ours, and my work environment has changed enough to really make me feel stupid for ever grousing about being busy. We’re missing a lot of folks, and business hasn’t improved enough yet to erase the lines from people’s faces. Still, it’s pinch-myself wonderful to step back into a life I’d thought gone and irretrievable. We’ll hang on with fists knotted in the mane.

This next week the missus will need the car most days for appointments and shopping, so I’ll be on the bike a lot. Why do I wait until it’s just more convenient for her when it will always be better to ride regardless? I have no excuse other than the prep time is a pain in the ass when I’ve already squandered valuable time in the morning getting caught up with the television shows we’ve recorded earlier. I have become a television junky. Dammit.

This is harder for me to admit than you might think. I really don’t like the idea of sitting in front of a box that throws pictures at me while my imagination withers. Even the computer (my second love, my mistress) is at least interactive. I have to touch her, pet her, caress her so that she opens her charms to me. She’ll go wherever I want and makes it all about me. Television? Peep show. No touching! And every few minutes the hotty has to step aside so that some shill can scream at me to buy crap. But as one character said on one of my favorite shows (if I may go meta here for a second) “Television is just crazy-good this year!”. So now a night out (as we did this last Wednesday night, me to The Horse Brass with friends, the wife to a pub quiz downtown with acquaintances) translates to a DVR half-full of stuff we feel compelled to watch all at once just to catch up.

Don’t misunderstand; nights out with friends will always triumph over staying home, but the point is that television has become a form of duty. When did THAT happen? I used to say “Television? Yes, we watch PBS don’t you know, perhaps a bit of The Learning Channel (back when it WAS The Learning Channel and not the Watch-This-Poor-Lady- Sit-On-Her-Own-Spinal-Tumor-Like-A-Beanbag-Chair Channel), but really, we don’t watch television as much as most people do.” I would say this in a way that even I found obnoxiously condescending, but it’s just what one should SAY, right? Who wants to just sit and watch hours of television.

Well, I do, apparently.

I would seek to excuse myself because much of television IS crazy-good these days, but the fact remains that after dinner in the evening we troop into the living area to plop down and briefly debate what to watch first, and one of us always says “Geez, we have a LOT of stuff to catch up on!”

She: And oh my God, you should really be watching “Rubicon”! And “The Event!”

Me: I’d have to quit working. I’d be on the street downtown with a cardboard sign, “Will Work For Cable”. We need a 12-step program here, this is really getting out of hand.

But then “The Walking Dead” premiered.

I’m screwed.

Semi-Tough

2010-10-17T11:13:00.001-07:00

After nearly six weeks of emailing and handing out resumés and poring over employment websites and the newspaper want ads and filling out applications, I am now part-time gainful, with my previous previous (as in previous once removed) employer. I was asked to accept a temporary gig with the company while another associate went on vacation, and by the time said vacationing employee returned I had made it obvious that the company needed me, was bereft without me, relied on my stunning work ethic and superior skills. Or perhaps it was the wheedling.

Whatever. I have something to do three days per week now, and it’s a bonus that it’s not something that I feel I settled for, something that doesn’t make me want to attack my own wrists with a spork.

Now I have to fill in the gaps at least until I can convince my employers that the Earth will verily open and swallow the building lest I be there all the time and ever and ever amen. Hard sell in these trying times, and since I can’t be assured of the certainty of going full-time before spring, I’ll take this opportunity to explore other part-time possibilities, something outside of the environment in which I’ve been working for so long. Why not? I’m reasonably intelligent, have been known to wear dressy clothes for hours at a time without getting something on them, and can learn to shave at least every other day. I’m going to go with the assumption that, whereas an employer wouldn’t dare hire me on full-time in a field of which I know little, he or she may accept me in a part-time position where I might not single-handedly sink the battleship. It need not be fancy; a bookstore (yes, I know I wouldn’t actually be reading the books, thanks), or data entry (I’ve done this, and if you count signing up for every got-damned social networking website and web forums I happen across, I’ve done it one Hell of a whole LOT, maybe more than I’ve done anything ELSE). I might even contemplate working a couple days a week for a non-profit…wait, I’m getting a cramp…

Meanwhile, I’m joining a gym. Actually, I’m re-joining Bally’s Total Fitness, which is running SUCH a deal, even though the rat bastards never refunded me for the remaining months I wouldn’t be able to use when we moved out of the state. It’s the best deal going that I’ve found, really, so today I’m taking my 30-day trial coupon (offered when we moved into our apartment here; Nice!) to them and scoping out the joint to see if the facilities have been adequately maintained. I’ll take my work-out togs with me for my first formal exercise session in two months; I’ve seriously fallen off the wagon, so no doubt Monday will dawn with a groan. I also haven’t been to the track in a couple of weeks, and that 5K in which I intend to participate next year won’t run itself, now will it?
Yeah, tough talk. This makes me tired just typing about it.

And now for some news I’m sure no one expected, something jaw-droppingly flabbergasting, an event sure to stun and amaze: we are on a list for another apartment, and will move when one in a suitable location in the complex becomes available. The missus isn’t happy with the overall size of the one in which we now abide, and neither of us are enthused about the size of the kitchen; it’s like a coffin for elderly appliances. The cats could use more room too, and I’m thinking that this recent habit of theirs of dashing around my legs as I carry boiling or pointy articles is a manifestation of their dissatisfaction. So ONCE AGAIN we’ll be schlepping our worldly goods to and fro, and honestly? Not going to write about moving ever again. If we end up in Ghana you’ll just have to discover it via inference and veiled clues (“Dang! That orange-cheeked waxbill crapped all of the Range Rover again!”). I’m done. What was I talking about again?

This week I’m riding to work every day, and last time I rode the bike it was all squeaky. I’m thinking some dry desert dust insinuated itself in some moving parts after I cleaned it last time, so I’ll be cleaning the bike this afternoon.

Finally, here’s my goal for the next year:

http://www.trails.com/activity.aspx?area=14659

Every one of them, at least once. I loved the hikes we did in New Mexico, and it seems ridiculous we haven’t done all of these in our own (adopted) home state. I’m inviting anyone who wants to go to come with us. I’ll post the intended date and time on Facebook, and post photos when I have ‘em afterward.

That’s it and that’s all.

Go forth and Enjoy!

Running To Catch Up

2010-09-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's approaching a month since we've returned home, and being “idle” (are people who are searching for work “idle”? I think NOT) has started to gently nibble at my joie de vivre.

I just a couple of days ago received a form letter via email from a prospective employer thanking me for interviewing but informing me that the position has been filled. Most other applications I've made have been via website and email, a process I find much more stressful than face-to-face interviews (for instance, I can't modulate my tone or my charm based upon the elevation of the interviewer's eyebrows if I can't see them); that's the challenge of job-hunting irrespective of the method: convince the interviewer one is more engaging/intelligent/serious-minded/talented/willing to shovel [stuff]/kowtow to every whim than one, in fact, actually is. There is a phrase I like to use to identify the sort of person who is truly convinced his everyday in-the-skin persona is sufficient to land him or her any job he or she chooses: jobless sociopath. Yes, there are employed sociopaths, but they have learned the art of camouflage at least in defense against those to whom they report directly (to the dismay and rage of the rest of us).

So I suppose my point here is that, enamored of the innerwebz as I am, it has proven to be a large thorn in my side by dint of it being this wall of ones and zeroes between me and those I have to seek to impress in order to once again be a productive member of society. What have we come to that, entering a place of bidness wearing my best aloha shirt and the biggest smile my face can produce, I can nevertheless be turned away with instructions to access a website where I might be able to get in the damned door I ALREADY WALKED THROUGH IN PERSON?

I'm kidding about the aloha shirt. C'mon.

At one point I almost fell for that temp-to-perm crap. I went for that for my first job in Albuquerque, and my trust level went to NIL after the first two shifts. Engage three workers employed by a temp agency that just happens to be run by people connected to the company for whom they are engaging said temporary workers, to eventually fill ONE position? This is apparently legal. It is also apparently impetus for Rob to jump ship after a month in favor of employment with, well, another pit of despair, but at least it was on my own terms. At least I LEFT it on my own terms. This is MY logic, feel free to conjure your own.

So now we're home, and jazzed I am about that. I missed my foggy, damp, spooky, cranky city, yes I did, and I didn't realize how much until we crossed the bridge and saw the welcome sign. That being said, I obviously can't expect the job market here to hug me back. I have to confess now that I was naïve about one idea I had, that the company for which I worked here had sufficiently recovered to hire me back in relatively short order. Oops. Since returning to Portland the company has released two more of my former work-mates, one of which had only a couple of weeks prior encouraged me to try getting hired back. This, of course, makes me feel ten kinds of awful for everyone involved, me included. I feel confident they would hire me again if they could, but it seems that won't be soon. And, to be achingly, hatefully honest, I have to ask myself if it would be in my best interests to return there before the evidence of a solid year of profitability. I'm thinking no. Man. Honesty sucks.

************************************************************************************************

So guess what! I actually ran on a track two days ago! It sucked ALL varieties of Sucky Town but I managed to jog the equivalent of, say, half a mile of a total of a mile-and-a-half. Are you snorting at me? Because I plan to do it again today, beeshez. You watch. My legs still ache, but it feels good in the way that exceeding one's own expectations always does. I ran on our young neighbor's elementary school track because the nearby high school track was off-limits due to a football game. It was a spontaneous decision on my part to actually run; my intention was initially to keep the missus and her friend company while they walked around the track. I don't know what came over me, I just started trotting. I swear I felt like I was audibly clanking like a rusty suit of armor, but I kept it up for as long as I felt I could without tripping over a lung. I think spending a year and a few months at a higher elevation actually helped me out, because whereas my speed was essentially negligible (my wife disagrees there, but I can only report how it felt to me), my breathing wasn't nearly as labored as I had expected it would be. Or not nearly as SOON, anyway. So I'm going to keep it up. Maybe this time next year I'll run a 10K or something.

It could happen. Keep your flying monkeys to yourself, kthx.

In a few minutes I'm taking the bike out on the Springwater to ride my old route to work. Just for nostalgia. If it rains on me, so be it. I live here, and it's all good.

Stamina Shmamina

2010-08-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about ya’ll but for me, eating too much and too late in the evening leads to odd dreams. Last night’s offering found me enjoying an Emmy prize with Jon Hamm (he plays Don Draper in Mad Men). Too bad the prize was two seats at the Olympic Games where we watched a yak-driving competition, and there was only one team and one yak. I was disappointed, naturally, and Mr. Hamm was livid. Where does this stuff come from?

Our travel date is fast approaching and the missus has already packed most of the kuh-nick-kuh-nacks and books. I’m looking forward to being in Portland again (no offense, Burqueños!) but the mate is in a fair froth. Sure, less for me to do, but it already feels like I live in a storage shed up in here. I’ll be brushing my teeth with tree bark if she doesn’t slow down.

The truck is reserved (a 14-footer, plenty enough room since all of our old gargantuan pieces have been sold off), as is a car dolly with which to transport the car. I’m a little trepidatious about using a car dolly since we used a transport trailer for the trip to Albuquerque, but apparently, while somewhat less than ideal, I haven’t read anything truly dire about dragging the car with one. If some classic car enthusiasts are willing to use dollies to haul their shiny relics (as my research on the web has found), I guess I shouldn’t worry about a Yaris. This time my bike isn’t going to be strapped to the back of the car, though. There should be space in the truck for it.

One thousand three hundred and seventy point six-three miles, travel time estimated via MapQuest at twenty-one hours and forty-three minutes. We could shave a few miles off that, but I choose to reach I-25 via Tramway so that we can avoid most of the in-town interstate traffic, which resembles the asteroid-dodging scene in The Empire Strikes Back way too much for my taste. ANYWAY, for sane people this translates to two and a half days of driving and motel luxury. We’re driving it straight through, pausing every two hours to stretch and switch seats. Why? Because we are hardy folk of pioneer stock who believe nothing is worth doing if you aren’t willing to suffer miserably and unnecessarily while doing it. Have we ever done this before? No, although we have two or three 12-hour slogs under our collective belt. I won’t say I’m exactly over the Moon about the prospect, but I was watching a show about the United States Marine rite of passage known as The Crucible yesterday afternoon, and I thought to myself, “These guys have to stay awake for fifty-four hours and, like, march and run all the way across a state while getting yelled at and crap. We’ll be sitting in an air-conditioned truck for roughly half that time and the yelling probably won’t start until after a couple hundred miles. Piece o’ cake”. Right? Right? Say “right”.

I’ve given my notice at work, and now it’s all I can do to pay attention to what I’m doing. Several people have approached me to say they’ll miss having me around (and quite a few really seem to mean it!), and there are some people and aspects of the job that I’ll miss in return, but as a whole I won’t be sorry to leave. As for my prospects once in Portland, a couple of friends there have already given me leads on possibilities and I even sent my resumé via email to my past employer as a sort-of joke (But who knows? Maybe I’ve been gone long enough for them to forget some stuff).

The apartment community we left is holding an apartment for us, so we’ll be driving directly to a new home that’s in a way an old home. Can’t beat that. All aspects seem to be falling into place, and thus the anxiety of facing yet another move should be eased.

Yeah. Should.

Sojourn

2010-06-27T10:11:00.000-07:00

Have I said lately just how much I love Albuquerque, and New Mexico in general?

If I haven't, I feel the need to state it anew. I love the climate, the landscape, the cuisine, and the great people we've met in person and on-line (via Duke City Fix). I feel great about the opportunity I've taken to revisit the state of my youth (geographically speaking; I've never left the figurative state) and I'm doubly glad that my wife, who had her doubts prior to our relocation, has loved it all too. We've had great hikes, cool road trips, and a terrific time under this startling blue sky and this blasting, nearly audibly-shining sun (the radiation burns notwithstanding; that's my own fault).

It's been (and here is that over-used word again, but know that I mean it in the purest of senses) awesome.

But it's not home.

You know how, no matter the great time you're having on a vacation, you nonetheless have that feeling of satisfaction and relief when it's time to pack up and go home (unless of course your life is truly wretched and you were just fooling yourself into believing a vacation would fix it)? That's where we are now. It's been a shade in the corner that has become progressively more solid in recent weeks, and we couldn't even put a name to it until one day, when a news story featuring Portland was aired and the missus and I looked at each other and said, nearly simultaneously, “I want to go home!”. Now everywhere we turn we find references to Portland, or Oregon in general. It's like being haunted.

I won't lie and say that every aspect of our residence here has been faeries and chocolates; certain elements integral to my current job suck the very suckness, and the “luxury apartment living” we're presently experiencing is a farce. Those things hardly count as reasons to shove all of our junk into a truck and motor off back across half the nation, and of course they aren't the reasons we're leaving Albuquerque. How to explain it? I can only assume that a long-time Burqueño would feel the same way after a year in a new city, however much they appreciate and enjoy the experience.

In short, it's not a Burque thing. It's an us thing. Sounds like I'm breaking up with a mate, doesn't it? Sort of feels like that.

So come the last week of August we're loading up and rolling back whence we came. We've taken the opportunity to shed some bulky belongings in favor of more streamlined living and to help finance the move. We've already made overtures to our prior apartment community and the manager has responded with open arms. Employment ? The economy is still wobbly but I have confidence.

To those who welcomed us here; Thanks Very Much. You are first among the reasons we intend to visit this wondrous land again in the future. Until then, I'd like to keep up with events via DCF if the other members can tolerate such. I promise to wipe my shoes!

Woe. Wide. Uh. Wides A Widow Woe-uh.

2010-05-09T11:14:00.001-07:00

It's not every day one gets to participate in a rescue, and it's not a bad way at all to begin an afternoon. It's also an opportunity to understand that, as sucky as you think your day is going to be, someone else's day might have the potential to suck way harder.

Had some business to wade through at the North Valley Mail Carrier Annex on Montano yesterday (Saturday), and the missus graciously agreed to drop me off before running her errands. I was going to be there all afternoon, and I'll admit to being more than a little surly at the prospect (I prefer my weekends free of obligations beyond those that require me to be upright and conscious for short periods; eating, bathing, etc.). We rolled into the parking lot and into a parking space, and the wife sat more or less patiently as I performed my standard ritual of scuffing my feet on the floor mat and whining “Do nawt want!” before exiting the vehicle.

As I rose to stand beside the car, I heard a small “mew!”. I looked around, expecting to see a cat in the lot. Several more plaintive “mew!”s came in quick succession, and by then the wife had heard them too and had gotten out of the car. Of course then the kitteh klamor ceased. What is it about felines that enjoy howling for attention when trapped somewhere, and then shutting up once you get up and start looking for them? Just one of many ways they choose to amuse themselves at our expense I suppose, like knowing intrinsically the length of your arm and then standing haughtily just out of reach as you try to pet them. Spiteful beasts. ANYWAY, we looked under and into the two other cars in the lot and then took a look through the sparse shrubbery nearby, but at that point we were pretty sure we knew where the creature was and our respective stomachs clenched with trepidation.

The cat was in one of the cars. Not in the interior meant for humans, reclined in luxury on a plush seat while it watched with languid glee as the bipeds scurried to and fro looking for it. I mean the interior of the car meant for spinning, third-degree-burn-inducing metal bits perfect for chewing up small mammals. The engine compartment.

Some stories make the news, feel-good pieces meant to make the viewer go “Awwww!”. Puppy in the landing gear, ducklings in the storm drain, happy firemen holding a sodden adorable bundle of fluffy cuteness they just saved from dire circumstances. I'm betting, though, that there are ones where the pretty lady with the microphone has to excuse herself from the broadcast to throw up behind the news van. We were seriously hoping for the feel-good piece. Years ago we discovered a stray cat that had had it's spine crushed (presumably by a car) and we had to take it to a clinic to be euthanized, something I hope is never necessary again. So as we tried to ascertain which of the two other vehicles in the lot contained the animal, we were also girding our loins for the possibility of horror.

An elderly gentleman came out of the post office and was understandably consternated when he found himself confronted by two anxious strangers. Not so understandably, he was less than interested in becoming involved in helping us (I despise people who prefer to shut their eyes to anything that doesn't personally benefit them; I briefly considered explaining to him that he might be even more inconvenienced if he'd later have to hose cat parts off of his engine block, but by then he'd already switched on his engine and backed out).

Fortunately in very short order the owner of the remaining vehicle appeared, and he was much more open to the suggestion that his car harbored a stow-away. As a matter of fact, he said, he'd heard noises as he prepared to leave home that morning but assumed they were made by birds nearby. Our conversation was interrupted at this point by a renewed effort on the part of the kitten to make it's presence known, and erased all doubt as to it's location. At this point, our friend Gerald appeared; we'd made plans to meet at the post office.

The owner raised the hood of his car and we were all gratified to see no evidence of roasted kitteh on the engine block. The “Mew!”s had increased and we quickly realized that the unfortunate youngster had wedged itself head-down near the rear of the right-side headlight. No way could any of us reach in from overhead. Crap. Bumper surgery was in order. By this time, another passer-by stopped to lend moral support and a towel in which to swaddle the critter once freed. Gerald was able to wedge his car key into one side of the bumper molding and pry it away, and from there seize the wailing young feline. Success! Bumper replaced with no damage, handshakes all 'round. If I'd thought then to ask names I'd include both the owner's name and the passer-by here, but I didn't think of it. Yeah, yours too, Old Not-My-Problem Man.

Released kitteh does not necessarily mean happy kitteh. Over the course of the next three minutes the little scamp managed to escape twice to go bounding off to parts anywhere-but-here. At one point, when finding itself cornered, it actually launched itself UP the side of the building, hence the inclusion of “Jackie Chan” in the list of possible names for him (or her; I still don't know). Other names: “Camaro” and “Bumper”. “Lucky” is cute but hackneyed.

The missus stowed the kitten, now snuggly wrapped in the towel, into our car and headed home while Gerald and I squared our shoulders for the afternoon's toils. Later she called to let me know that she'd found new owners for the little waif, a couple who had answered our online offer to sell our Xbox. They are due to collect sometime this afternoon. Of course we'd love to keep it, but there are four other entities in this household besides the spousal unit and me, and at least one of those would submit a “HELLZ NO!” vote if polled, I'm sure.

Danger Kitten is safely snoozing in the wife's lap in the living room, and I'm contemplating lunch. It's yet another gorgeous day outside. Perhaps a walk or a ride on the Bosque is in order.

Go Out and Enjoy.

I'm...shrug

2010-04-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

Because I have no cohesive narrative in mind...

One thing I hate: Making a sangwich and squeezing the mustard bottle to get an ejaculation of mustard water. That's just disgusting. Yeah, I was in a hurry and didn't shake well.

*****

Who loves tumbleweeds? I love tumbleweeds. On the drive home from work last week I was very nearly broadsided on Jefferson by a swarm of 'em surfing a great gust of wind across the roadway. The wind alone was cool (I may be alone in this opinion), but the tumbleweeds added a dimension that had me wishing for a camera. Iconic things, tumbleweeds. I was suddenly dissatisfied with sitting in a car as I rolled effortlessly on asphalt. I felt I should instead be astride a horse, big iron on each hip and a broad-brimmed hat firmly set on my brow (well, I actually did have the hat), as I aimed my square jaw (just work with me here) at the setting sun. As I ruminated on this fantastical scenario, I conveniently shoved to the back of my consciousness the fact that the one and only time I attempted to ride a horse, the resentful brute tried to dump me onto an electrified fence. I was ten and somewhat girthsome for my age, and obviously this animal had some very definitive opinions concerning acceptable height/weight proportions.

ANYWAY, I've always loved tumbleweeds from afar and now I get to see them all the time. Rustling in the brush. Rolling in spasmodic jerks across a field. Gathering at chain-link fences. Really, I do love them, but they're spooky! That's what I get for watching “The Outer Limits” as a kid.

*****

I am looking forward to my first-ever in-person bicycle race event! The Roadrunner Classic takes place Saturday April 24th, and the missus and I plan to attend. Needs: Two lawn chairs and enough cash to buy some unfortunate-but-tasty foodstuffs. Wants: A 4-pound bicycle and a set of Albuquerque-grown lungs. I know I'll sit by the side of the road telling myself “I could do that! Really, what would it take? Discipline, shmiscipline.”. Then I'll recall how grateful I always am for the first stop-light on my route to work. What I should do is find those paths I keep hearing about in the foothills and see if I can manage to train up into something like reasonable shape without inverting my ribcage. That would make a jolly spring/summer project.

Bicycling is my favorite sport to watch. Actually, it's the only sport I watch (except for expedition racing such as the Eco Challenge, and when was the last time you saw one of those broadcast? Oh, we have puh-lenty of “reality” shows featuring woefully over-sprayed, over-muscled, over-funded, foul-mouthed doll-people, but adventure racing? Crickets, crickets). Pure athleticism astride elegant sculptured machines. Writhing veins and tendons and ground-down molars. Grace and danger. That's a bicycle race.

The only other sports I can think of that match bicycle racing are long-distance running and rock-climbing. I'll watch those too. Do them? Are you effing kidding? Instead I'm considering another project, mainly walking every path and trail in the city, and once done, doing the same on my bike. That would be a terrific way to see the whole of the city, and surely beats the heck out of driving. I'm in love with the idea, actually.

*****

I'm curious. Did anyone ever resolve this mystery? I know it wasn't an extraterrestrial craft (no offense to the Art Bell crowd), but I'd like to know if anyone definitively identified it. I'm guessing balloon. It is Albuquerque, after all.

*****

That's it and that's all. Except I'm gonna go see Kick-Ass no matter what the critics say or who's sense of propriety is assailed.

Hasta.

Here and There

2010-04-04T17:20:00.000-07:00

My front tire keeps going down. Very slowly, but down it does go. Doesn't appear to have a puncture, so is this due to elevation? And yet the rear tire doesn't lose air nearly as rapidly. I need a new pump. The one I have sucks. Well, blows actually, but you know what I mean. It might as well suck, I guess is what I mean. I don't think you should have to pause to take your pulse when airing up a dang bicycle tire, y'know?

It is a few days past our one-year anniversary in Albuquerque. On April 1st of last year we were installing our humble belongings into our first apartment and basking in the awesomeness of a desert southwest Spring, listening to the cooing of doves as they worked to dissolve the roof of our building with their caustic leavings, delighting in the thrilling zing! at each touch of every light switch or doorknob, marveling at the work involved in drawing a proper lungful of air. Good times, made all the better by our decision to remain married after three days on the road in a U-Haul truck. Wouldn't change a thing.

So, after a full year, some impressions:

Good Gawdz, have I missed thunderstorms! More, please! (I understand if others don't share my enthusiasm).

You can keep the snow, though. Preferably in the sky. Thanks.

I feel empowered in pumping my own fuel. Empowered, I say!

“Yes, this round thing tells your car where to go, and this pedal lets you go as fast as you want and we think you should press it allll the way down! And the other one...wait, let's look that one up in the manual...”

Aw man! Where's Doonesbury?

Excuse me, sir? SIR?? Your stereo is knocking paint off my car!

That casino off of Tramway takes on an ominous, Death Star-like quality when you drive toward it for ten minutes and it doesn't seem to get any closer.

I've seen more wildlife here than in the last twenty years. That rocks. I'll consider coyotes crossing my path a good omen until I'm proven wrong.

Why do so many New Mexico residents on city-data.com seem so grumpy and ready to leave? Fine. Leaves more room for all the Minnesotans who're ready to move in. Can you blame them? Hey, be nice! I'm from Oregon and I'm properly grateful, right?

Tarantulas? Scorpions?? Snakes?? You guys are lying. Or maybe you think you live in the next state over? Haven't seen a one. Damn it.

The Bosque rules. And the Natural History Museum. And the Petroglyphs. And green chili cheeseburgers. Hell, New Mexican cuisine in general! And Spanglish (I have GOT to crack that book and get busy!).

I'm very happy here. I'm happiest when I don't have to drive, but hey, who isn't?

The missus and I went to Tent Rocks National Monument yesterday, to hike the cave loop. It constantly makes me skeptical that the landscapes of the Southwest are anything other than sculpture on the grandest scale. No finer tools than wind and water and time.

We weren't looking for a workout, just a stroll through one of the many wonders of the state. There were a lot of people winding through the park, a few of them from other states. I was rather gratified by that, as I was by the enthusiastic chatter I overheard on the trail. People should embrace the experience of where they are, however far from home they are. When we lived in Portland, we had family members visit us from Texas. We were stoked to show them around, show them the cool city we'd adopted as our home (there were certain of my mate's relatives who were smugly certain that we would return to Texas in a year), but we quickly discovered that the experience was lost on them. Granted, mohawks and piercings are bound to give your average Dallasite pause, but wouldn't you rather embrace the strangeness of a newly discovered place rather than fiddle with your iPod (uh, Walkman; it was a while ago) in the back seat or curl your lip at the clothing choices of passers-by? Stupid. I was glad when they went back home.

When my job ended in Portland, we actually didn't hesitate. We love Portland and always will, but when the opportunity presented itself, we considered our options with enthusiasm. What else would we do? What else would anyone do who truly felt they had a say in their own destiny? My wife, ladies and gentlemen, is the pioneer of the two of us. It was she who got us to Portland, and it was she who swallowed her trepidation (she once went through Albuquerque years before we met, on her way to Boise, and was decidedly unimpressed; speeding through on the interstate is no way to be properly introduced to a city) when I broached the idea of our moving here. That's the sort of brio that inspires and takes me out of myself (even though she eats Fritos while she talks on the phone. Ay-yi-yi). So now we live in Albuquerque, as far from Portland as the Moon in many respects, and we couldn't be happier.

For now. Always in motion is the future.

A very personal note: a friend in Portland has joined a Roller Derby team. Awesome! I've been a fan of Roller Derby ever since “Roller Girls” aired on A&E. You GO, Heidi! I've never been to a bout, but that'll change real soon.

'Kay, that is all.

Wear and Tear

2010-03-07T12:07:00.000-08:00

Okay, that's yet another move over and done with. It's a shame we had to goldilocks our way through this apartment community, but this time we have a winnah. This place is great. I don't even (much) mind the fact that “luxury living” still includes ugly plastic baseboard, and that the cable installers ran out of white coaxial before arriving for our appointment so that we have a decorative black border flowing along the ceiling through the living room to the den.

This last move has brought to light a pitfall of frequent migration: Man, is our stuff beat up! Not so bad that the movers offered to buy lunch and a trip to the Salvation Army outlet or anything, but between the moving and narrow apartment doorways and stairways and a wood-chewing cat (why he does this is beyond me, but that cat lubs him some cherry cocktail table nom-nom-nom), our furnishings are starting to look a tad like we stuffed them into a covered wagon for the trip here. Telling ourselves “If you squint it looks shabby-chic” is starting to sound tired, if not a little delusional. I foresee furniture crayons and stain and paint over the next couple of months, and oh well, we wanted to re-boot our décor anyway. Perhaps we'll revisit the southwestern look. We did that years ago when we lived in the Dallas area but went more eclectic once we relocated to Portland. I'm partial to Celtic-slash-Gothic myself, but I don't think gargoyles would fit in with the southwestern theme. I could swap out the gargoyles for chupacabra figurines if I could find some. Surely they exist (figurines, I mean).

I'm feeling the need to broaden my horizons. Work-wise, I mean.

Okay, I'm gonna do some carping here. “Well there's a surprising turn”, some of you mutter to yourselves, and yeah I do it a lot, but this is something that I didn't even like to say aloud, let alone clack it out across the networks. It is simply this:

I like what I do at my job, but I don't like the organization for whom I work and I don't care for the culture within which I work. The chain of command is broken and no one ever knows the same thing at the same time. Morale is non-existent. My co-workers are a sullen and paranoid lot, and management displays a classist attitude toward the warehouse crew and volunteers. Often the work we do for the community is compromised for the sake of appearances; we spend too much valuable time disrupting real work so that we can put on a spit-shine for the media. In short, working where I work is a frustrating and at times enraging experience.

I'm not going to name the place at which I work, although anyone could easily suss it from past entries. This is an indicator of my frustration, actually, that I'm risking being dooced just to vent here about the place. There are those who read this that might say I have a reputation for shooting my mouth off. In truth I'd always rather be a booster than a nay-sayer, and even when I've criticized in the past it was with the hopes that it would be taken constructively, and it most often was at my last real job. Not so here. I've heard the blanket I-know-but-this-is-the-way-they-want-it-and-I-just-do-what-they-tell-me so many times from my immediate supervisor that I might as well have it emblazoned on a t-shirt under the company logo.

The hours I work are great. That's the best feature. Is that sufficient to keep me there? Aargh.

/rant off

Today features a trip to the library and then a drive through the northwest part of town just for fun. The missus had an appointment in that part of town last week, and she was impressed. I might also try to talk her into a stop at a coffee shop on Juan Tabo not far from us. I'd like to try a coffee shop that isn't a Starbucks for a change.

It's raining this morning, but it's that barely-there rain you would see in Portland. Meaning no disrespect, but that's just not suitable here. If it's going to rain, I want thunderous sheets. Portland rain was too polite (well, except for sticking around all damned day, day after damned day). Give me rain that shoulders through and panics the birds. (And note to self: Put fenders back on the bike.)

Mañana!

A Proper Title Eludes Me, So This Will Have To Do

2010-02-06T18:28:00.000-08:00

Tonight we'll be taking delivery of a new old used desk. A guy named Archie (I think) from Thrift Town on Menaul offered to bring it to us since the desk is not disassembleable (I doubt that's a real word, actually, unless it is once it's published, in which case I deem it open source; have fun!), and therefore has not a hope of fitting into the Yaris.

The desk at which I'm currently sitting is a cherry veneer executive-style desk that has finally seen one too many moves. The drawers no longer open and close without threatening to fall off the rails, and the glossy surface is mapped with every scrape of coffee mug and cat scramble. The veneer has started to wrinkle and chip where my right wrist glides to and fro (yeah, I spend a LOT of time sitting here virtually sucking up the internet juices). It has served us grudgingly well, but now I hate it and I suspect the feeling is mutual.

So we visited a few stores featuring used furniture and “antiques” (read: “dusty, busted old stuff priced for hobbyists and/or the credulous”) located on Lead and Coal and perhaps one or two other avenues named after items on the Periodic Table, with no success. We were resigned to picking out another knock-down piece from Target or Walmart when we happened upon Thrift Town and decided upon one more perusal before heading home. Wallah! It was like the thing crooned to me from amongst the scarred offerings near the rear of the store. I was steered right to it. It's not perfect; a spot of shmutz on a corner, a dime-sized gouge on one side, but all easily repairable. Given the offerings in most thrift stores, it might as well have glowed like the Ark of the Covenant. SUCH a deal. We were informed by Archie that proceeds of sales benefit The Arc of New Mexico, and that's a YUGE dollop of icing on the cake.

The new-to-us desk is not as large as this one, and doesn't have the storage space, but should prove much easier to move, because, *SIGH!*, yes, we are moving again, at the first of March. A two bedroom/one bath (the second bedroom is called a den on the floor plan, I suppose because it sports these funky double-doors) awaits us on the ground floor, in another building a mere few feet from what would be our back door if we actually had one. Apparently the previous tenant left under cloak of night, leaving behind a pile of odds and ends for which he obviously meant to return but was dissuaded from doing so, perhaps by the documents promising judiciary proceedings affixed to the outside of the door (and actually he should be prosecuted, just for the way he deployed his cable. I mean, white coaxial attached by black brackets right up the wall? Who does that?).

So. Disadvantages: One more freakin' move, because you know, what FUN. More expensive. Can't keep the bike out on the balcony because the balcony is now a patio and therefore vulnerable to thievery. A fireplace that just eats up wall space and makes furniture placement more problematic. No more leaving windows open to allow in those lovely desert breezes as we blithely come and go, secure in the knowledge that most felons don't bother with rappelling gear when sacking apartment communities. No letting cats out on the patio without saran-wrapping them to a table leg. Increased odds of insectual encroachment.

Advantages: A ground floor apartment is easier to move out of (because, c'mon, we WILL be moving again, I've accepted my fate). The unit has a washer and dryer included so we don't have to use the dilapidated and often rifled and busted-up machines in the laundry rooms. The den will become the office/study/bike room, so the bike will be relatively safe after all. The cats with have more room in which to establish territories and render skirmish lines. And, most importantly, the odds of my wife bouncing down a flight of stairs will diminish. I won't miss hauling the bike up and down, either.

All in all, a practical move. As I always convince myself when it's inevitable and there's not a flipping thing I can do about it anyway.

SIGH!

I Resolve to Evolve

2010-01-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

My lovely machine (to me, anyway) stands neglected. I haven't ridden in over a month and this galls me every time I look at it. Look at it's headlights. See that glint of reproof? Meant for me and only me, muchachos y muchachas.

Perhaps I should state here and now my intentions for this new year? Public humiliation as a punishment for failure is a great motivator, non?

* Ride my bike! Ride to work often and also for recreation as often as is feasable. I've been leery of riding lately because I live in fear of shady spots where the snow and ice have lingered. I've already fallen ass-under-New Balances during a morning walk, and the idea of careening into an arroyo at speed on a bicycle gives me the shudderings.

* Drop the rest of the weight I've gained since I quit smoking (whereupon my metabolism shanked me in the back and rolled over for a long nap).

* Stay regular with the workouts at the gym and on the trail. Learn to run. Yes, I typed "learn to run" because I suspect I don't really know how to do it. Because running sucks and I rarely willingly learn to do things that hurt whilst doing them. Actually, being an example of Urban Man, running for me is unnatural for any distance longer than, say, half a block (catching a bus or an ice cream vendor), but never mind, yeah, have to learn.

* Learn this great city of Albuquerque. Ride the bus, ride the bike around, learn all the trails and all the byways. Except the highways. Hate them. LOATHE them. These people (not YOU folk, I'm sure) drive as if the automobile had been invented two minutes before they sat in one. I once read a description of the Autobahn as like being fired upon from behind by cannons lobbing BMWs and Porsches. Driving the highways here is like that to me, except I suspect Germans drive better, or at least manage to stay in the lane for longer than ten feet. I digress.

* Learn Spanish! As in, crack the damned book we bought and apply myself, rather than leave it lying on the table as if it's very presence will let me hablar la lengua de España (translated via Google; guh!)

That's five. Not unreasonable.

Now for this to be effective, somebody has to volunteer to chastize me when I fail to persevere. But you know, that's just likely to make me mad and send me into an ugly, middle-aged pout, so never mind.

Hasta.

Elijo no al cariño de la nieve. Gracias.

2009-12-13T12:21:00.000-08:00

I must confess I like snow Albuquerque-style. Which is to say

"Hey, did you see the snow?"
"No, I was in the bathroom."

If I have to have snow, that's the kind of snow I prefer. As in not much and not for long. Yes, it's lovely up there on the mountain, and it's even pretty to look at in the city so long as I'm indoors looking out at it. Walking in it, traveling in it, not so much. Annoying. Hellish, even. I prefer to set out across a parking lot relatively secure in the belief that I'll make it to the car without risking head trauma or a shattered elbow. The aesthetic pleasure is not worth my deductible. Once a few years ago I was trapped indoors for three days when a freak snow storm dumped on Portland. The city ground to a muffled halt and many businesses (including my employer) closed to wait for the thaw. All of our friends lived in the same apartment community, which was situated at the top of a fairly steep hill that made travel precarious, so our apartment became the hub of activity. These were very good friends, see, and I still considered eating them if the food ran out, less for the nutrients than for the quiet. The joy of snow is lost on me, is what I'm trying to convey.

I'm dreaming of a dry Xmas. Yeah, call me a grinch. Now watch. Our arrival here in Albuquerque will coincide with five or more years' worth of 2006-level snowfalls. To those snow-lovers among you: you're welcome.

In the "Is thems the thoughts of cows?" department of Continued Education, the missus and I have decided to learn Spanish, with the aid of a workbook I discovered at Goodwill. I say "have decided", present tense, because we purchased the book two weeks ago and have thus far only managed to identify a few household objects ("¿Que es eso?" "Eso es la lampara!"). Any qualitative progress at this point is nil. We always seem to find something else we'd rather do or must be done. It's disheartening to find at the age of fifty that I'm no better a student than I was in high school, but then again, having abused my hearing with Led Zeppelin on earphones turned up to eleven, smoking my brains out for thirty years, and here and there drinking way more than is good for me, it's really no mystery as to why my cognitive skills aren't quite as elastic as they once allegedly were. Still, it slightly galls me that, other than our eighteen years in the Northwest, I've spent most of my life in environments (Puerto Rico, Texas) where it would have been so easy to apply myself to learning Spanish and instead just frittered away the opportunities.

I suppose we're lucky to try to learn it here; from what I've been told, the style of Spanish spoken in Albuquerque is a style that's not afraid to take it's time. In contrast, one young volunteer I know at my workplace has intimated that Mexican Spanish is spoken at breakneck speed, leaving newly-educated speakers confused and wallowing. At any rate, I should actually just be content if I can learn to muddle my way to Spanglish, which to my understanding is a mutually-agreed-upon compromise, but that's not my goal. I really hope to speak it thoroughly and well enough to avoid barks of laughter. I think I have the accent down, anyway.

(What is quite interesting is that it's immediately apparent which words in English and Spanish share a common root -- "lampara"/"lamp", "pintura"/"picture" -- and which do not, like "reloj"/"clock", the word "clock" actually being derived from Celtic origins. Yes, this blog seeks to educate as well.)

Today we are going to the Verizon store to drop off the wife's cellphone charger and manual for the phone she donated yesterday. We'd gone there yesterday to have my old cellphone converted to her number since she hated hers and liked mine, which I in turn hated and had opted to replace (I'm so over the clamshell flip style, so I bought a snazzy new flat one. Pause for yawns.) After that, the missus wants to take a tour of the Nob Hill area. We like to drive (or better yet walk when the opportunity exists) different neighborhoods when we can, because we'd rather be residents of a city than just residents of one neighborhood in a city. I'm a bit hamstrung when it comes to navigation due to a malady I like to call directional dyslexia, so I'm very happy to be living where there's a conveniently looming mountain with which to orientate. Along with fluidez en español*, we also would like to have a good overall knowledge of Albuquerque, because who knows when we'll move next and where? I'd like to think that any area in this city is a potential home. Oh, yeah, about that...

...we'll most likely be moving AGAIN into another apartment on the ground floor soon after the first of the year, this time because SWMBO has decided she should get over her security anxieties for the sake of becoming weary and fed up with trudging up and down a flight of stairs bearing laundry and groceries. This is fine with me except

(A), the cats will have to be leashed when they venture out to the patio ("cats" and "leashed" are funny together in any sentence in ANY language, unless of course you're the one doing the leashing/unleashing, so laugh it up), and

(2), my bicycle will have to come indoors, I don't care if I have to take it's place chained up out on the patio. Which is quite likely, should I choose to wage that particular battle with my formidable spouse. As a former Portlander, I'm conditioned to believe that leaving my machine out of sight is an invitation to grief. No. Way.

The floor plan the missus wants happens to be the same as the one just vacated across the breezeway from us. Talk about a dead-easy move. But it's still upstairs. Dammit.

Time to become productive, lest I gather the disapproving gaze of my mate as she bustles about behind me in a house-keeping frenzy. L8trzville.

(* I cut and pasted that from a Spanish translation website. I'm lazy but honest.)

Abroad In The Land

2009-11-08T11:12:00.000-08:00

Know what's awesome? Not in the continent-forming, solar flare, oceans rising to conquer the land sense, but in the d00d! sense of the word as it's used in parlance these days?

Road trips. Road trips rock.

Give me a car (and while you're at it, a competent driver, because I don't like to eat and drive at the same time and we should all be grateful for this), a couple of Micky Diaz's sausage bisquits, a tallish coffee, and a strip of asphalt that goes a ways, and I'm guh-roovin'. Particularly if the asphalt wends it's way across an American state made for said wending. Like, say, New Mexico.

It's not a surprise that the apogee of our rolling orbit was Roswell. I hesitate to say "destination", because the best road trips don't have destinations, they have only filling stations and rest stops and restaurants offering fried delicacies in grease-sodden wrappers, good solid American road food that necessitates a knowledge of the whereabouts of the establishment's defibrillator or set of jumper cables. The missus and I didn't want to focus on an end point. We wanted to glide through the landscape and absorb.

The Willamette Valley in Oregon reveals it's emerald secrets a little at a time as one follows a writhing road, and even the clouds conspire to keep it under wraps. It's a tease, like a flirtation. New Mexico's eastern plains are like a Sumo belly bump. It's here and it's there and it's way over there, and it resists cuddling and it demands awe and respect. It's worked damned hard over the course of millenia to be what it is, you betta recognize. And that glorious, dangerous sunlight just pours over all of it.

I've read that one of the ways New Mexicans identify Texans is by how they pronounce Ruidoso "Reeyo-dosa", and that's exactly how the missus pronounces it. Forgive her, please. She lived in Texas even longer than me. Ruidoso is beautiful and surprisingly Oregonish in places. And touristy. Ah well. We don't gamble (well, I don't) but next time we'll hike some trails there.

Roswell. What can I say? Well, I can say that my first home town* needs to get shy of quite a few bug-eyed mannequins and posters and crap. When I lived there, Roswell had no need to look to the mysterious heavens for revenue. It had Walker Air Force Base, where my dad was stationed. Alas, Walker shut down in 1967 and we moved to Ramey AFB on the magical isle of Puerto Rico, and in my absence the town was over-run with unearthly kitch. Aliens on shop windows. Alien heads on lamp posts. Aliens selling coffee and beer. Inflatable ETs hawking furniture and books. A "UFO Museum" (that was actually in the silly-but-cool category even with the cheesy fifth-grader dioramas, and cudos to the optimistic nerds who've managed to grow it into quite the going concern and are living the dream) that will soon move into an even larger facility thanks to the donations of like-minded sky-gogglers and conspiracy fans. It's all just too too much. The citizens of the town of Corona, which is actually closer than Roswell to the alleged crash site, should daily face southeast and raise their hands and voices in gratitude.

Underneath all the otherweirdly junk is a pleasantly modest, lived-in-looking town. In ways Roswell reminds me of Abilene, Texas (my second home town, and another place I hope to visit soon). I can actually visualize myself living in Roswell again (although I'd be divorced; I have this on good authority). Of course I had to find the house I lived in as a kid, so that's what we went looking for first. I just pretty much asked my wife to head in a general direction, and said something like "We'll have to find a map somewhere, it's not like I know my way around anymore..."

And we went right to it. Spooky.

Those of you who've followed this blog for awhile will probably recognize the house, but this time I was the one taking the picture. At the last second I couldn't bring myself to step out of the car because I thought it was suspicious-looking enough to be snapping photos from the car without actually strolling the sidewalk like I owned it. People get twitchy about that kind of thing, and twitchy people call the police, and REALLY twitchy people might reach for a baseball bat. As it is, I kind of hope no one in that neighborhood reads this, because even though it's part of a cherished memory, I still felt like an intruder.

As we rounded a corner at the far end of the street I was pointing out things I remembered that no longer existed. A friend's house, the friend's name long forgotten; the corral fence that bordered his front yard, and now girded only by cracked curb; the vast open pit across the alley that we used to call the boondocks, full of dirt mounds and roots called devils horns and junked and rusting cars, now mostly filled in and a lot smaller than I recall; the Piggly Wiggly that once stood just a couple blocks away now replaced with a Dollar General.

After a tour of the UFO Museum, we had lunch at a Cattle Baron restaurant (over-priced and nothing special), and then got directions to Valley View Elementary School from two cheerful young waitresses. Again, we had no trouble finding our way.

Except for the newish playground equipment, it looked just how I remembered it. I don't recall the sign being there, but it may have been.

In my day our classes had Halloween parties, not "Fall festivals". Dang fundy-mentals.

Finally, we chased the sun homeward, watched the day fade into gold and then into sepia.

Great trip. I might even go back and spend a weekend in Roswell sometime soon.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

I usually get up at 5 a.m., and I'm at the gym by six at least two or three mornings per week. The other mornings, I hit the sidewalk and walk for an hour.

Weight-lifting is good for you, it's a good way to lift your metabolism and maintain tone. It's also a sort of hydraulic fake labor, convenient only because it beats keeping boulders to throw around in your back yard (front yard if you're a show-off). Lifting is necessary to stave off the middle-age blobular silhouette, but no way is it FUN.

Walking is fun. And mood-enhancing. And educational. And spiritual.

On one walk I saw three coyotes cross Eubank and intersect my path (or maybe it was two coyotes, one of them twice). As I walked further and turned down the North Piño Arroyo Trail, I was paced by roadrunners and bunnies and lizards in the underbrush. On another walk I discovered neighborhoods near home that had escaped the fauxdobe glut by some miracle, and I strode the sidewalk wide-awake past slippered and still-groggy newspaper collectors and a few dawn patrol dog-walkers. Not one looked in my direction. Maybe most folk aren't quite ready to be assailed by the presence of other humans that early, who knows? Once upon a time I was the nocturnal sort and didn't gaze upon the world before noon willingly, so I guess I can relate. I try not to miss a sunrise now, though. An hour's walk and then home to greet the missus with a cup of coffee as she levers herself upright to seize the day. That's the stuff.

I recommend going for a walk.

(* I was born in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, but I don't count that as my home town because I feel you should be able to do more in your home town than dribble on yourself. Thus, Roswell was my first home town.)

Silence and Cacaphony (or "Silent Lucidity"? Nah.)

2009-10-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

This morning's breakfast: a lump of pumpkin bread. I say "lump" because I have over the last two days eroded it's loaf-shaped goodness, picking at it until it looks less loaf-y and more asteroid-y. An asteroid of pumpkin bread would rock, I think.

I took a few photos of balloons last weekend before BOTH cameras' batteries died (of COURSE).

No, we didn't go into the park; too many people too close together. Instead we parked on I-25 with every other luckless soul who thought they would surely find a superior vantage point within 25 miles of the place. Well, not exactly "parked" per se, but I'm pretty certain our forward motion could have been outrun by various forms of lichen. You'd think we would have been peeved at this, but it did turn out to be a good balloon-gazing spot, plus it was kind of pleasant to witness so many automobiles on the freeway that weren't trying to break the effin' sound barrier. I'm not a big fan of freeway driving anyway, but I've found that many motorists here up the ante considerably by refusing to use turn-signals, so driving amongst these hurtling blinker-phobes is a lot like Han Solo threading the needle through the asteroid field.

Two asteroid references in as many paragraphs. Did NOT see that coming.

Anyway. I can attest to the fact that seeing photos of many balloons in the sky and actually witnessing it personally are two vastly different experiences. Beautiful. Also eerie. I can see why animals would be spooked by these huge craft; even birds make noise, but balloons just hover there as if pondering a judgement. Every once in a while they make this *hhhhhhhhhh* as the pilots adjust altitude, but otherwise they're silent as a secret. I hate to use the overworked and abused word "awesome", but that is what it is to watch these gliding marvels.

All that last was mostly for the benefit of my PDX pals. Maybe many of the 'Burquenos (is that right? Or am I underlining my n00bness here, good citizens?) reading this are thinking "Yeah, balloons yadayada *YAWN!*" I hope not. I hope I don't live here so long that such a wonder becomes boring. It feels much as I used to feel when on a clear morning in Portland I would stand on my balcony with my coffee and gaze at Mt. Hood. You get tired of something like that, go find y'self a sturdy shovel and commence ta diggin'. Yer done.

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#

From the bowels of the "Why I'm Hopeless At Nearly Everything" department: Lately I've been regretting not having learned how to play a musical instrument when I was younger, particularly the guitar. I took a class in junior high school -- Lincoln Junior High, in Abilene, Texas -- in an abortive attempt to learn to play the recorder. Stupid name for an instrument, and I proved to be as ham-fisted with that as I did with virtually any tool I'd handled in wood shop (yeah, I sucked at that too). I had good intentions, I approached the task of learning with all seriousness at first (except for the couple of times I tried to practice at home in front of the mirror, standing on one foot a la Ian Anderson, just to see what I looked like; surprise! I looked like a DORK*), but t'was for naught. I'd have made more pleasant noise stepping on a squirrel. The musical bent I apparently had not. After awhile I tried turning the recorder into a blowgun. My parents were somewhat less than proud.

The reason this yen for guitar-god musicianship has reared it's dexterity-deficient head is that the FM rock stations here in the Duke City seem inordinately fond of '80s metal. Heretofore I wasn't really a fan at all, gravitating to the more eclectic fare of KINK 101.9 FM, perhaps Portland's best station. Here I've found no radio station that quite fits that bill, so when in the car or at work (I installed my own stereo in my work room, go me!) I most often listen to one of three interchangeable rock stations, and godz help me, I've aquired a taste for hair metal! If cities had to decide on a song that represented the collective musical tastes of it's citizenry, Albuquerque's would be The Scorpions' "Rock You Like A Hurricane", because if I bounced to and fro between these three radio stations I would hear that song twenty times in one day, I no keed.

Impromptu Top Seven Guitar Godz List, No Particular Order Except The First Two And That's Debatable Between Them (this is SO youtube-lolz-wtf-geeky I wouldn't blame anyone for rolling their eyes and refusing to read it, but d00dz, just RAWK with me kthx):

Jimi Hendricks
Stevie Ray Vaughan
Eddie Van Halen
Jack White
The Edge
Pete Townsend
Skwisgaar Skwigelf

'kay, that is all.

(* This made me feel better, dork-wise. Thanks, Ian. You're still one of my musical heroes.)

Narrow and Wide

2009-09-20T12:52:00.000-07:00

It's Pancake Sunday! Been awhile since we've had a breakfast o' flapjacks, so I'm looking forward to it. I'm hoping we still have the Snoqualmie Falls pancake mix. What restaurants in Albuquerque make good pancakes? Anyone? Anyone?

Oops, and flapjacks aren't really pancakes. Thanks, Wikipedia.

I have a bone to pick, and hopefully that bone I seek to pick won't be (a), MINE, and (b), plucked from the side of a motor vehicle. My consternation has to do with this: WHY must I share a bike lane with passenger-side rearview mirrors? What is it about many motorists in this fair city that leads them to drive so far right of the freakin' crown of the road? I realize I have a bias here; Portland motorists by and large skirt bike lanes by a fat margin because of the amount of bicycle traffic, and those who ride bicycles in Portland are a vocal and litigious lot (and USUALLY rightly so, although some are all too eager to pick a fight). There is, however, in my mind no excuse. A bike lane is a bike lane no matter in what city it may be found. It is NOT a bonus space for automobiles, demarkated to show motorists just what a deal they're getting, like a line on the outside of a cereal box showing how much less cereal you'd get if it weren't for the graciousness and largesse of the producer. "Dang! Looka this, honey! Twenty percent MORE ROOM on the right!"

Don't misunderstand, please. As a vehicular cyclist I have found that sometimes bike lanes aren't the optimum path to safety, and so I will eschew the confines, and pedal outside the lines, for broader avenues the cyclist he pines (awright, knock it OFF). Often, when they lead where I want to go, I'll be on the many and delightful trails 'twixt the ditches anyway since they're scenic and fun to ride. However, while I'm IN the bike lane, it's MINE. I'm thinking the law itself says so unless New Mexico's traffic laws are very different from Oregon's. Please keep all your metal and glass bits to yourself and well to the left, because if you don't and I get clobbered by your mirror or any other part of your vehicle, I WILL try to get some of my blood on your physical person. STAY OFF MY PATCH.

That issue aside, I've had an easy time commuting to work. Now I have to gird my loins and start riding more often AND ride home FROM work as well. So far one thing or another has made riding home impractical, but I'll be honest here and state that the few times I could have ridden homeward, I didn't. Shame on me. Not warrior-like at ALL. This next week I'll make the effort to ride round-trip on my commutes. What does not kill me makes me stronger, once I've stopped heaving behind the shrubbery.

#######################################################################

We recently discovered the Bear Canyon Arroyo Trail a mere two miles or less from our front door. Excellent place for a walk and to see lots of animals and flora. Now I know where those prickly pear things come from.

There are always roadrunners, rabbits, lizards, and birds everywhere, just as on all the trails we've walked. And QUIET. The kind of quiet that makes cresting the path beside the dam overlooking Juan Tabo Blvd. somewhat startling when the sound and sight of traffic reassert themselves. Actually, everywhere seems a might quieter; is it possibly the rarer air? Or the fact that we aren't hugged on all sides by hills?

My friends in PDX are gonna get awfully bored with me waxing rhapsodic about the Southwest but I mean to say, even the SKY is a wonder here. The clouds are soaring sculptures suspended in the fathomless blue.

Our favorite time to take walks is at dusk, watching the sun go down and set the clouds aflame on the horizon. Truly stunning.

One last note. I keep hearing a gotta go to this place, and now I see THIS:

Gotta go. It's been real.

Heights and Loathes

2009-08-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

Sunday is traditionally house-cleaning day at der Garrisonhaus, and these days there's lots less acreage to cover now that we've down-sized living space. Unfortunately that means we gave up the washer and dryer provided in the larger apartment and must now use the community laundry rooms.

Cripes. I hate picking up after other people, man. It's like our neighbors just moved here from the Pleistocene epoch, when people wore mostly dirt. Why must I get elbow-deep in somebody else's lint? You know when you walk into a laundry facility and the tops of the machines aren't sticky, the floor is swept, and the lint traps are clean? That's because I live in your complex. Say "Hi". I promise never to leave my detritus for you to wade through, nor anyone else's after I've left, most likely. I also will never leave my clothes in the dryers until they're dusty and have to be washed all over again. One thing that separates us from the beasts of the field is our ability to TELL TIME, see? I've always found it funny that people would dare get huffy when someone else had to haul their wet junk out of a washer because it sat in there for three hours. Did they assume everyone else had just left the planet for the day?

I won't say that I "love" my fellow humans, but I'll always respect them, and I'll always shake my head (or my fist) when I meet people who refuse to think past their own immediate needs.

Okay, rant off.

Last Sunday (I am SUCH a lazy blogger guy), The wife and I drove into Cibola National Forest and up to Sandia Crest.

Isn't that just awesome? This was taken from Sandia Crest. Notice that there is NO RAILING. I find it refreshing that visitors are required to look after themselves and those in their charge, don't you? No railing, and therefore no reason for you to be this close to the edge. No mollycoddling here, boy. Watch your step.

Since the trail continued along the very brink of the precipice, and the missus is not fond of heights (nor am I, truth be told), our hike came to an abrupt halt. We'll come back and hike it another day, or I will while the little woman dials our insurance agent, as she has less faith in my middle ear than I do. Besides, there were thunderclouds and lightning in the distance and we had no desire to tempt the godz. We've read of something like ten people being struck by lightning since we moved to Albuquerque . I love to watch lightning storms (Portland sees something like three per millenium) but when you get worried just walking to your car in the parking lot, that's a tad creepy, gnome sane?

These warm sunny days have been a balm, but I'll admit I'm looking forward to autumn. Autumn was once my favorite season, before I moved to a part of the country where it rains almost incessantly between September and May (and NO, I won't forget that's part of what makes Oregon so lush and beautiful), so I hope to recapture that romance now that we've settled once again in the Southwest where it precipitates in the spring and summer as is proper.

Earlier this morning I took a virtual walk past Valley View Elementary, the school I attended in Roswell, via Google Earth. The photo I'd zoomed into looked as if it had been taken in the fall or winter and I was immediately struck with the scent of dry, brittle grass on the playground. My schoolmates and I staged mock superhero battles at recess, sprawling on that grass and later taking it home with us in the folds of our jackets for our mothers to tut over. Y'know, I can't even remember what superhero I chose to be back then. I'm sure he was cool, though.

A Rant and Some Other Nonsense

2009-08-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting at the desk with a cup of coffee, earphones on listening to AC/DC ("Who Made Who?") on Pandora.com. This is one of my very favorite things to do on an early weekend morning before the world brightens and stirs.

Actually, any day that starts with music and/or a bike ride puts me in a fine state of mind. I need that these days, seeing as how my present job has me knee-deep in tediousness and miopic management foofraw much of the time. Pardon me, just a little rant, missing my old job and comrades. At least I can say my week days go by really fast because to accomplish ANYTHING I have to be at a fair trot. Fancy "managing" and "coordinating" individuals who don't have to do what you ask of them and who don't have anything like the desire you have to GET SH!T DONE. And you can't yell at them or call them names. this is like my seventh circle of Hades. I can hear my old work-mates guffawing over their fish tacos as I speak. Type. Whatever.

Perhaps I should state here that I feel fortunate and grateful to be employed. This is me doing that now.

we're finally in the new apartment, and it's one of our better decisions. Small? Oh yeah. We haven't lived this small since the early days of our marriage. It's just the right size, though. I don't know why we felt we needed a separate office space. *snort!* "Office", like I really worked in there. The "office" was where I slaughtered enemy zombies and Nazis and watched YouTube videos. Yeah, it's like I just stopped maturing at fifteen years old. Except we didn't have this stuff when I was fifteen. We youngsters had to stage G.I. Joe® Apocalypse in the back yard in real time, with real fire, by gawd. I love the smell of singed plastic in the morning. The parents, and my kid brother whose G.I. Joe® I incinerated, not so much.

I wasn't a troubled child. Everyone else seemed a lot more bothered than me.

I digress.

I love this new place. It's orderly and efficient and just all-around more livable than the previous space. Our next-door neighbor can't park his damned Volvo to save his life, and directly above us live a troupe of clog dancers, but having been a cliff-dweller for most of my adult life it doesn't bother me. Oddly, nobody lived in any of the other apartments around us in the old unit; the entire block was vacant except for us and we never have found out why. I kept expecting to be waylayed by former tenants in the parking lot, waving shaky fingers at the building and moaning "Noooo! Do not abide there!" and warning me of little girls from beyond who don't brush their hair.

Speaking of things that go *bump* in the night...I know it's a subjective thing and anyone is free to comment au contraire, but apparently about the only thing liable to go *bump* in the night in Albuquerque is drunk drivers. Don't get me wrong, 505'ers, I'm a YUGE fan of this city, but compared to my old stomping grounds (that being Portland, Oregon, natch) there's nary a whiff of the mystic here. Portland is Spook Factor Ten, Mr. Sulu. All that lovely misty rain and fog, silent side streets lined with old houses, mossy sidewalks, and looming bridges and trees make for quite the eerie atmosphere. It's reflected in the citizenry too, what with the dark clothing and the gloomy demeanor. Maybe it's different in the fall and winter months, but Albuquerque seems doomed by topography and meteorology, bereft of the kind of ambience that turns one's thoughts to the night side of Nature.

I'm sure these folk would disagree. Perhaps I should do some research before I shoot off my fat fingers. I don't mean to say that I believe in the occurrence of paranormal phenomena in the absence of empirical evidence (of which I've read and experienced none), but I have an open mind and I'm a sucker for atmosphere. Now that I mention it, judging by my reaction to an experience I had with a waking dream many years ago (an apparition in blinding-white robes standing by the bed as I lay paralyzed in terror after an afternoon nap), open mind + sucker for atmosphere = susceptible to suggestion = first guy in the group to jump out the window after soiling his trousers. Maybe I should just research from HERE.

A long day of loafing awaits, to end with a nice twilight stroll through the neighborhood this evening. L8erz.

Downsizing

2009-07-12T10:10:00.000-07:00

In another couple of weeks we're moving AGAIN. There is nothing else I loathe worse that I seemingly do so often. That it's MY idea this time, and for a practical reason, won't lessen the misery either.

The impetus this time is almost purely economic; this apartment is more expensive in rent than we care to afford (and the floorplan sucks, too). We have a mind to do all we can to become debt-free[ish] within five years, and tossing cash at an apartment we don't like isn't fiscally sound. So we're moving across the parking lot to a 1bdrm/1bath, for an eventual savings of $260 per month. I say "eventual" because the corporate (pirate) entity that runs this community insists upon another deposit and a 30-day waiting period for the refund of the original deposit we paid for this unit, instead of merely transferring. Plus some other little fees and expenses here and there. Thanks so much, and may I point out that in some nations of the world a bullet-pocked wall in the central square has often been the response to this sort of crap? Just a cultural-slash-historical aside offered for edification.

Other than the slogging of possessions across hot pavement for hours on end (how can two people amass so much junk? Excuse me, how can ONE person amass so much junk? These "curios" are NOT mine), I'm looking forward to living in a smaller space. Let's say "more utile space" instead. The living area and balcony are actually somewhat larger and much more arrangement-friendly in the smaller unit. No more shoe-horning my bike in and out of a cramped space (what, you thought I stored my bike OUTSIDE? Dudes! I'm from PDX!) AND there's a breeze-way right outside the front door where I can clean it under cover. Sweet.

One slight disadvantage: no washer and dryer in the unit. This bothers the missus more than me, but I told her I'd gladly take care of the laundering. I prefer doing laundry in an hour-and-a-half rather than four anyway. Makes for a less-noisy household, too. Freakin' dish washer is bad enough. I haven't checked out the laundry facilities here, but should they be inadequate (surely not, in a "luxury" community) I'll need to find a decent laundromat in the neighborhood.

Other quibbles that I'll make someone else's problem if they aren't addressed: what's with the cheap plastic base moulding in a "luxury" apartment? And the soot on the ceiling next to the vent? And the debris shoveled into the storage closet? Are we in Green Acres here? I've been a cliff-dweller most of my adult life, so I don't expect faeries and chocolates every time I rent in a complex, but if one's brochure suggests filet mignon, one better not be slingin' Hamburger Helper.

Ever seeking the easiest way to do any damned thing, I've hit upon an idea for moving our stuff. Rather than boxing up the books and kuhnick-kuhnacks, I'll use a few of the canvas grocery bags we've accumulated. This will mean a lot of trips to and fro. Oh well. I'd rather do it this way than spend a bunch of time filling unwieldy cartons to carry up and down flights of stairs (of COURSE we're moving into yet another second-floor unit to appease the little woman's security anxieties; I swear next time I'll just offer to install punji sticks in all the windows). We'll have to hire a couple of guys for the big stuff because the wife can't carry anything that heavy and I'm not about to Ferrigno a sofa by myself; my middle-age insecurities don't yet extend quite that far.

One interesting bit is that this "office" will have to be incorporated into the dining area. This prospect pleases me more than I would have once thought. I spend too much time in this room with my back literally turned to everything and everyone else, and I need seriously to break the habit. This honkin' yuge desk is going away too, and it's about time. I've broken this thing down to relocate it so often it's a wonder it doesn't fly apart as I type on the keyboard. Time to go find a new and smaller (and cheaper) one.

Another purchase in the offing: a king-size mattress set. We ditched our old one a couple years ago in favor of a friend's plushy queen that she had replaced. Nice, comfy mattress, but we've subsequently found that both of us reading in bed leads to elbow wars, plus the cats are missing the no-man's-land, plus the woman stored it on it's side and leaning against a wall so that it's all warped (what IS it with people?). We shopped a couple of mattress shops and have decided to put a king set on lay-away so that when 2020 rolls around we'll have a brand-new bed that I hope will float because I expect we'll all be under water by then unless some kindly aliens drop by to save us from ourselves. Klaatu barada nikto.

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

I'm pleased to relate that so far I've had nary a curse nor beer bottle cast in my direction since I've taken to Albuquerque's streets on the bicycle. I was "honked at" (more of a "please don't" than a "HOW DARE YOU, WORTHLESS TWO-WHEELED HUMMER-LESS PINKO!" kind of honk, really) once last week when I was looking to segue to the left lane on Ellison with the intent to turn onto Jefferson (I didn't make it; this was at roughly 9:15 a.m. on a weekday morning and there was just enough overtaking traffic to warrant a safer transit at the crosswalk. So far I feel just as safe as I did in Portland, and my route to work is actually a LOT more fun.

I've had two flats so far (one rear, one front), and neither of them were attributable to the dreaded and despised goat-head or any other roadway hazard. In both cases the tube simply gave way around the valve. I was told this might be due to the drier air and friction (I now use talc when replacing tubes). The missus went to a bike shop while I was at work to purchase a couple of spares for me (I always carry two) and came home with a pair of thorn-resistant tubes, the cartons of which stated they were sized 35c to 43c. Oops. I use 32c hard-case tires, so I'd asked her to request 28c-32c; every tube I've ever purchased indicated this sizing. She was repeatedly assured that they would fit when she voiced concern. Guess what? It was like trying to stuff an anaconda into a garden hose. WTF? I am not a dab hand at changing tubes, I'll admit, but I actually ruined one tube trying to get it seated properly. We took them back and we received full refund for them, but the fellow stated again that this was the size recommended, and they had no other size range. Weird. I'll try another shop later this week.

I'm outtie. Enjoy the week.

Idiot Box

2009-06-21T10:47:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday. I have been without benefit of spouse for most of three days now. Can't say I care for it.

The missus is visiting relatives from South Carolina (or is it North Carolina? It's one of those drawl-y, humid states), and a new job and pet care considerations have dictated that I stay home. That sounds great, doesn't it? Love her as I do, she and I shouldn't have to be in each others' pockets all the time, have to have some free-and-clear private and personal time, correct? So relax, dude. Watch bad tv, eat what you want, drink more than is good for you, hey?

Y'know? That's good for, like, four hours. I was pretty much done with waving my freak flag by noon yesterday. I'd even entertained the notion of treating myself to dinner out at Los Cuates (preternaturally great New Mexican food!) but talked myself out of it because it felt like I'd be cheating on my wife in a way. You just DON'T go to a restaurant alone that you've always previously visited with your mate. It just. isn't. done.

I've watched a lot of CNN and MSNBC, which, if you watch for two hours, is basically the same as watching the same half-hour program four times in a row. It's true, apparently this big ol' wide world doesn't provide quite enough news of the easily-digestible sort that we Americans demand (two minutes of shaky video showing unrest in Iran followed by the awwww-inspiring story of the rescue of a flushed kitten to wash that tart taste of social concern out of your mouth). I should have tuned to BBC America for news; at the very least, news reported in that plummy accent at least SOUNDS more interesting and important. They don't have Nancy Grace, either. I wish they did. No I don't. That's just mean. To the British.

(I'm happy to report that the local news is by-and-large pretty inoffensive, at least as evidenced by channel 7. There IS this one guy who has a hairstyle that makes him look like Eddie Munster: The Anchorman Years, but that's not offensive at all. Maybe I'M offensive for pointing it out.)

I watched a Lifetime movie. Yes, a Lifetime movie. Angie Harmon and her family find out their neighbor placed video recording equipment in the attic of their house and taped them without their knowledge. Creepy. I can't say that it was a "good" production (other than blurry, back-and-white Angie nudity) in that I felt no compulsion to ring people up and say "You HAVE to see this!", but it was effective. Boy, was I mad at that creepy neighbor guy.

Then I watched a documentary about UFO mania, hosted by Peter Jennings. Since Peter Jennings himself beamed up four years ago, it's obvious this program wasn't terribly fresh, but I'll say it was the best examination of the subject I've seen so far. That's actually not saying very much, as most television fare on the topic tends to owe a debt to the Erich von Däniken School O' Mystic Science-y Stuff.

I could just give you a quick run-down of our weekly viewing schedule too, if you like. No? FINE.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

I love this town for bicycling. Portland, Oregon has one very good MUP (Multi-Use Path, and it is VERY good one) called the Springwater Corridor, and a superior network of bike lanes and routes (ah, but for how much longer?). Albuquerque's infrastructure seems more organic, though. Perhaps it's because most paths seem to stretch from greenspace to park to neighborhood along arroyos and natural contours in the landscape. Maybe it's because of the wide-open views. Maybe I'm just still dazzled by the scenery. I can't say anything definitive other than I'm diggin' it. Today I'm going to drop off some books at Cherry Hills Library and then pedal onward to explore a possible route to work. If our observations are correct, using paths through Heritage Hills Park and along the North Pino Arroyo will take me most of the way, to within a mile and a half or so of my workplace on Office Blvd. There's a segue point at Ellison and I-25 that looks a leetle sketchy, but it won't scar my psyche all that much to use a crosswalk for safety's sake, I imagine. Anything to keep the missus from having to walk to the hospital from the airport Tuesday night.

Gotta get to it. L8rs.

Work It, Live It

2009-06-07T12:03:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I hope to hear that I'm even more gainfully and happily employed. I submitted to a drug screen last Wednesday as the final step in the acceptance process. Barring the inadvertent ingestion of poppy seeds, I should have no problem there. I'd hoped to hear from them Friday, but it looks like Monday now.

That whole idea, of a drug test gone horribly wrong because I ate something that tripped a positive result, makes me wish I'd showed up at the clinic with a small bag of hair and nail clippings too, maybe a cheek swab, my bath towel, anything to demonstrate good faith, y'know? Certainly they'd look at me askance, but there'd be no doubting my sincerity, right?

I have a letter of resignation ready to go for the contract job I hold now. I dread delivering it. I don't take rejection very well myself, so I always cringe at the thought of conveying dissatisfaction to other people. This is why I no longer go to the ASPCA; my wife has to bring home all the replacement pets because when I look into the cages at all the animals I want to take ALL of them home and so when we choose only one it feels as if I've leveled a finger at all the others and thundered "I FIND YOU WANTING!". Kills me. Can't do it.

I've been very fortunate in mining the job market here, since I've actually only interviewed for two jobs (I don't count the two or three on-line applications I submitted) since moving to town and got both of them. I'm particularly pleased with this second opportunity because I'll be working for a non-profit company in aid of a public welfare cause. That'll be a new experience for me. The missus has expressed an interest in volunteering her time and effort for the organization as well (the company relies quite heavily upon volunteers), so it's entirely possible that we'll be in essence working together two or three days per week. Can't beat that.

So now I must find a route that I can ride to work. I'm feeling a lot more confident on the bike now, thanks to a couple of cruises I've pedaled on Tramway and the Riverside Trail (VERY nice riding, by the way). The goal now is to find the route offering the best odds for survival to and from work. Where we live now it'll be a six-and-something-mile ride one way. That may change within a year because we're going to move from the apartment community in which we live to somewhere a bit more economical (and roomy, and without a fireplace taking up one whole wall in an already undersized living room, thus forcing us to Picasso our furniture in somewhat awkward juxtapositions, culminating in a need for physical therapy to alleviate muscular distress from simply watching our damned television. Godz save us all from architects who insist upon rooms that have more than four corners. Gimme a box. I can create my own "visual interest", 'kay?).

I digress.

We already have another apartment community in mind, should it be necessary in ten months' time to move to yet another apartment, but we hope to find a decent house to rent or a manufactured home to purchase in a good park. Yes, I said manufactured home. Or call it a mobile home, or a trailer, I don't care. At our age, "investing in a home" is just another way to pay for something that, in the end, stays above the ground while you get to lie in a box under it. Our tastes (other than for broadband access and cable television) are modest. I'd like a porch or balcony from which I may watch the sun set as I enjoy a beverage with my wife after a day's work. We aren't that choosy as to what said porch is attached as long as we aren't treated to daily viewings of Domestic 911 or meth fumes. We like the Northeast Heights area just fine, the fauxdobe generic style notwithstanding, but when I read the words "located in the prestigious Northeast Heights" in real estate brochures my Inner Trotsky starts hurking his hairballs of indignation. No offense. I'm just saying that these vague declarations of class distinctions make me uncomfy, and I'm not all that neurotic about where and in what I abide as long as it doesn't necessitate the wearing of Kevlar to fetch my newspaper.

Today I have to change a flat tire on the bike. Why it's flat I have not a clue. The tire itself looks no more molested than before I rode the Bosque Trail, but the tube won't accept air. I even tried a Schrader adapter on the off-chance the Presta port on my pump was malfunctioning; nope. (Non-cyclist peeps may Google these terms if they desire to know what the Hell I'm talking about, but yeah, I wouldn't either probably.) These are Bontrager Race Lite HardCase tires I bought specifically to combat the perils of Portland's rubble/glass/syringe-strewn streets, and so goat-heads aside I have trouble believing a few cracked sections of pavement here would breach them. I suspect the tube simply unsealed, perhaps at the valve seam. (Non-bikers: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz) I'll find out. OF COURSE it's the rear tire, and I suck at changing flats anyway. Grr.

After that, a walk along the North Pino Arroyo Trail through Heritage Hills Park. We discovered it yesterday from the Cherry Hills Library lot. It's awesome.

But first, the household chores.

Get out and enjoy the day!

Adios.

Gaspirations

2009-05-24T09:20:00.001-07:00

It's time to get busy, judging from last week's tragi-comic bicycle adventure (or Miss Adventure, as it's obvious our relationship is not on a first-name basis).

Call it an acclimation proclamation, a call to harms. In short, I'm going to have to go out on the bike and hurt myself over and over again. It just needs doing, else I'll remain standing beside the road sniveling "Mommy! The stupid old air HURT me!"

The facts are these: Last week I kitted up (that is, I donned some tatty bike shorts, a pair of cut-off sweats for modesty, a jersey, a flapping LOUD aloha shirt, and a helmet with blinking bike light affixed; it's the sort of oufit that had even Portlanders snorting into their lattés, which is fine because if you're laughing at me it means you SEE me), slathered on a layer of 30 SPF, and carried my trusty steed (a 2004 model Trek 7500FX) down the stairs. My wife agreed to drive SAG for me in the event my effort flagged OR the bright red of our Toyota Yaris was needed to distract a Hummer whose rutting ground I might inadvertently invade. Turning out of the parking lot, I pedaled my way to Academy Blvd. and turned east toward the Sandias. The goal was to reach Tramway Blvd, where I would turn north and ride as far as time allowed.

I made it two miles on Academy. At the most.

As I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the missus to circle around to collect me, as the blackness slowly receded from the edges of my vision, as the slight pink mist of exhaled lung tissue emanating from my gaping mouth abated little by little with each gusting breath, I had some time for reflection, a few minutes of interior dialogue. Much of it was profane, and I'm really trying to cut down on the coarse language. Basically the conversation ran thusly:

You have GOT to be [farmin'] kidding me. You used to commute ten miles a day to and from work with energy to spare, you take a couple of months off, and you only manage TWO MILES, if that? [Melon farmer]!

Hey! These aren't the plump, juicy air molecules they grow at sea level, a'ight? These here are, like, tiny spiky samurai dudes. Who hate you. And look, who was it decided that because he wasn't working he didn't see a reason to go out and ride? What kind of [stuff] is that? You could've kept it up at least for fitness' sake or better yet, FUN, but oh NO, hand me another [farmin'] doughnut! This is YOUR [gosh-danged] fault, Humongulus!

I was still castigating myself for my slothful ways when the missus reappeared and pulled over at the curb. This was humiliating! Depressing! Logic, ever timid and too polite, tapped lightly upon my cognitive processes and suggested that of course not all of this regretful situation was due to laziness, that I simply wasn't prepared for the toll the elevation and the rarer air would take, but it really didn't make me feel better. I was, and still am, very annoyed with myself.

Over the next week my lungs rattled like a plague victim's, my back and chest hurt like Hell, my calves threatened to cramp just walking across the room. Although I recently -- well, five or six months ago -- had a physical exam and was declared reasonably fit (for a fat-air sucker, at least), it feels as if I've been betrayed by my aging shell of flesh. Well NUTS TO THAT. Acclimate I will. Today I'm going out again, and I'll keep going out until I either conquer the atmosphere, or my colorfully-attired corpse decorates a curb (Ooh pretty! Is it a shrub? No, it was moving a little and then it stopped. Did you hear that noise it made? Like a cartoon steam shovel!)

*****************************
*****************************

If you're vegetably-inclined (I used to eschew -- as in "not chew" -- anything that grew from the ground, but I've learned better habits these last few years), I can recommend the farmer's market on Eubank Blvd NE. We discovered it this last week and Holy Cr@p does it smell good in there! The markets we visited in Oregon were all open-air affairs, so this indoor market really concentrates the aromas, chief of which were from fresh green chiles. We took some home and the missus made her very first batch of green chile chicken enchiladas. I about made myself sick. There's still some left in the fridge, so breakfast this morning will be atypical I think. Anyway, aside from the chiles there were strawberries that were among the largest and tastiest I've yet eaten. This kind of place could turn you vegetarian.

Today we'll be touring the city again, seeing what's to see and familiarizing ourselves with our adopted city. Maybe get further west of I-25, park the car and stroll Old Town. This is IF I haven't been collected from the roadway and medivac'd to the nearest hospital before then.

I'm off to read the morning paper and have a bite with the spousal unit. Enjoy your day.

Raging Against The Machine

2009-05-10T09:37:00.001-07:00

If I'm not very careful, I could get used to this.

I've been irradiated by unfettered rays of sunlight for forty straight days now. What a joy it is to dress every day as if I'm a tourist heading to a luau. I've worn the two tattered straw hats I have in my collection almost exclusively; the rest won't see the light of day until winter. The climate rocks. My hair dries while I'm rinsing it in the shower. Even the annointing process, wherein I must slather what feels like melted crayon on my as-yet fishy-pale flesh, isn't quite as annoying as I had imagined (and I'm not going without, regardless; our hike through the petroglyphs was lesson enough). Before the move from Portland I'll admit I felt a little low; now, although the elevation and the rarified air still tug a little (my fault, I'm not working hard enough), I'd say even my posture has improved. This place is good for me.

Of course, this vacation state of mind will be tempered somewhat (and really, this is a good thing, since it's hard to see ditches when one's head is in the clouds) once I've found an employer whose wages and benefits package merit my attendance most days of the week. I've been out of the job search business for nearly fourteen years; it feels...alien, like Ellis Island weird. When did the big-box purveyers start accepting applications almost exclusively on-line? Talk about feeling anonymous! I remember once upon a time carping about the interview process, sitting across from people whose interview tactics ranged from silent stares as they watched me fidget in their nasty plastic chairs, to non-stop chatter about the business environment (requiring only nods of comprehension from me; this is actually my favorite), to the seemingly endless sessions of "What would your fellow employees say about you?" and "Where do you see yourself in five years?" (I've always wanted to answer "At this point I'd say sitting here, I guess.")

I was once interviewed by an executive type in a three-piece who sat ramrod straight behind his desk and asked very specific questions about my work history, then in response to my answers would hunch over a note pad in front of him and write with his face nearly touching the table. I swear I saw the tip of his tongue protrude from the side of his mouth. It was like talking to a grown man while his five-year-old "alter" played secretary. I could imagine him writing "dont lik him he luks at me funy i want madonals for lunch ok".

I would choose these interrogations, though, to the on-line method of invasive questionaire mixed with psychoanalysis that seems to be preferred these days. I've submitted applications to two prospective employers in this manner, taking at least thirty minutes of type-and-click each time. After answering three hundred questions (which were really one hundred questions worded differently three times), even I was convinced I was a misanthropic malcontent, abroad in society only to alienate customers, rip off merchandise, and rend the very fabric of retail. Whereas with a true sit-down-and-gab meeting I usually come away with the idea I did pretty well and held my own, after these keyboarding trials I want just to redo the whole thing, or take the whole machine and bury it in a basement under a healthy layer of quicklime.

A few companies have simply requested resumés via email. That's not so bad, and as a matter of fact has led to my most promising prospect thus far. The feeling remains however that the face-to-face meeting is fast becoming passé. I fear that this is not progress.

Speaking of progress, I have to get out on the bicycle and start acclimating and exploring Albuquerque's bike-tolerant byways before I forget how to ride the damned thing. I have no excuse. The missus is of course terrified for my well-being, but I keep assuring her that it'll be fine once I'm out there pedaling away. Yes, there are places where bike lanes suddenly vanish and wide shoulders abruptly disintegrate into rubble, but I'm always quick to compare this city's nice, relatively wide and uncluttered streets to Portland's narrow, rain-buckled and ruptured asphalt (don't hate on me, my NW peeps, it's the simple truth).

First thing I'm gonna do: take the fenders off! Since now I live where the rainfall averages a mere 9.5 inches yearly versus 36.5 inches in PDX, I'll risk a summer downpour now and then. Once I decide finally to get on with getting out there, my first ride may be north (and then west) on Tramway, downhill with the valley spread out before me. It's awesome in a car, so I can't wait to see it from the saddle.

Getting home via the same route will be a bitch bastert, though. Hopefully my sea-level lungs won't be fluttering on either side of my chin at the end of my maiden desert (chaparral? whatEVAR) voyage.

Brunch beckons. L8trs.

In Sun-Washed Country

2009-04-26T10:12:00.000-07:00

It's seven in the morning (as I write this; I tend to dither over structure, get distracted by Boris wanting in my lap, and rise from this chair several times to fetch more coffee, so I might take ten minutes to finish one sentence. Discipline is not my strong suit) and I've got the 'phones on listening to pandora.com and having my morning espresso roast. Playing now is Weezer, "Island in the Sun". This is the opening paragraph, the "Good GODZ just get something on the screen!" paragraph. I have to approach this thing like Chris O'Donnel in Vertical Limit, leaping at a sprint across a chasm, fists full of climbing hammers.

(Two observations here: (1), I regret using a really horrible movie for analogy, and (B), the Internet Movie Database -- www.imdb.com -- thinks that, because I looked up Vertical Limit, I would probably like Gone with the Wind and Speed Racer as well. Why? Is it because there's wind on mountains too? Because the characters make a speedy ascent as they race to rescue the stranded climbers? Actually, I might pay to see Rhett and Scarlet peel out of a burning Atlanta in the Mach 5, just leave stupid people uttering witless dialogue on mountains out of it.)

We've been in Albuquerque 26 days now, and the requisite period of "Oh F**K, what did we DO??" passed after the first, say, twelve hours. I actually expected to feel out of sorts for quite a while, but even though it had been eighteen years since we made such a long-distance move (from Dallas, Texas to Portland) I guess our migratory muscles had kept their tone all this time. Once the furniture was huffed and puffed up the stairs and our stuff started coming out of boxes, it was already feeling good and right that we are here. I think it's an absence of culture shock, really. Becoming acquainted with The Portland Way was a steeper learning curve, whereas in Albuquerque there is more of that "southern state of mind" that we remember from our time in Texas.

Let me state now that I don't intend to play the "better than" game here. I love Portland down to it's grumpy, gothy, dour little soul, and the friends I've made there. I am not glad to be away from Portland. I AM very glad to be in Albuquerque nonetheless. When I make comparisons here, it's in the spirit of embracing the diversity of, and between, both places. So don't hate, 'kay?

Striking Difference #1: Holy crap, I can see two states from here! It's a kick to be driving west and see seemingly half the planet sprawling before us, with volcanic cones rising in the distance. To the northeast of course is the Sandia range, not quite the honkin' YUGE rumpled-blanket green mountains on offer in the Cascade and Coast ranges of the Northwest, but somehow the Sandias are more immediate, more there. See past entries about how I feel about desert environs. I'm diggin' it.

Striking Difference #2: I pump my own gas and it feels great! I almost broke the locking gas cap the first time because hey, I never had to open the damned thing before. (This was actually in Idaho).

Striking Difference #3: I've seen the sun every day so far. That's twenty-six days in a row. Okay, THIS is one aspect I'll unequivocally state is an improvement over Portland Oregon. Portland hasn't seen that many consecutive days of sunshine since Mt. Hood was a speed-bump. My vampire friends of the Northwest will just have to forgive me here.

Striking Difference #4: The Mexican/New Mexican food here is awesome, and I haven't found pot-roast in my enchiladas yet. Red or Green? Make it Christmas, please.

Yadayada #5: They stock stuff in the supermarkets (grocery stores, whatever) that I haven't seen since I was a teenager. King Vitamin cereal! (Think "cereal for people who believe that Cap'n Crunch just won't carry them to their first diabetic seizure quite fast enough".) Wolf brand chili WITHOUT BEANS, as the godz intended!

Numero Six-O: Speed limits of 55 mph are posted on surface streets. I kid you not. We've thus far avoided being run down, or even honked at (unlike, you know, other places). Regardless of the race-track mentality, the motorists here have been quite courteous. We'll see how they react to moi on a bicycle. The little woman has threatened to run over my bike herself rather than see me brave the roads, but the cyclists I've observed look pretty comfy and their shoulders appear lumber-free.

(A side subject: The medians here in the Northeast Heights area are scary; one has to traverse them either to turn left or do U-turns, and the sight-lines are often non-existent. I'm convinced I'm gonna head-on somebody coming around the other way or get side-swiped by someone trying to get by from behind. I'll get over it, but I'll admit it's my least-favorite driving maneuver here.)

Se7en: The arid climate means that static electricity is my homie. I mean, my toothbrush throws sparks, yo. The cats have taken to flinching every time I come near them.

Ate: They could relax with the adobe motif in my 'hood. Just a little. It looks like an SUV dealership on Tatooine up in here. That being said, the architecture here is unique to my experience. I liked walking Portland's sidewalks and admiring the old houses. Much of Albuquerque's building style appears more organic, as if the structures are grown straight from the soil. Portland is jutting, sharp angles. Albuquerque is rounded and wind-buffed. The two couldn't be more different.

Nein!: For the first couple weeks we had a little trouble gathering air molecules. Sleep was actually a bit of a chore. It's eased now, but I'm betting my first bike ride of any real distance is going to be a humbling experience.

****************************************************************************************************************

Today our plan is to go to Petroglyph National Monument for a hike. We'll be doing as much sight-seeing and traveling of the state as funds allow; heck, just getting outside the city's light-smog to see the stars at night will be awesome, the best show on Earth for free! For daylight activities I'm gonna have to get used to sunscreen, I suppose, seeing as I intend to be outdoors a LOT and the near-constant sunshine and elevation make for excellent opportunities to grow my melanoma potential. (I flirted with the idea of trying a spray-on tan to cover my pasty hide, but so far have shunned the concept as being simply too dorky even for me.)

A final note: When researching Albuquerque I came across post after post on various websites that warned of the venomous critters here. To date I have seen two moths and a few (admittedly king-size) ants. Not one scorpion. Not one tarantula. No black widows. Nary a snake. This may all change today, but at this point I'm almost disappointed. That's really ridiculous considering that I'm ever-so-slightly entomophobic, huh?

Brunchtime!

Adios.

In The Land Of Enchantment

2009-04-05T13:32:00.000-07:00

Dang. We did it.

After months of planning, and saving as best we could, and second-guessing ourselves, and being thrilled at the prospect while at the same time being nearly paralyzed by the amorphous spectre of “what if?”, we finally made good our threat to move to Albuquerque. Our apartment here is still in disarray (knick-knacks to place, pictures to hang), but it already feels like a home. I'm sitting here looking out of a window at sunshine and blue sky and listening to the sounds of what I assume are white-winged doves (I Googled). Pretty soon (after another cup or two of coffee and maybe a donut (Dunkin' Donuts has survived! Except they do lattes now. Gah.), I'll resume the task of putting things where they belong, or rather finding new places for them since we're dealing with somewhat less square footage in this place and we're having to be creative. Later I hope to get out and take more photos, perhaps partake of a New Mexican lunch. I'm already partial to the green chiles, but it's all good.

Turns out the hardest part was loading the truck, and since I did damn little of that myself (thanks again, Rebecca and Davey), I'd say it rocks most excellently to be me.

Actually I have that wrong (not the rocking excellently part). The hardest part turned out to be getting on the damned road. We loaded Sunday afternoon with the intent to set out at five the next morning, but we kept discovering closets and drawers full of possessions that we had apparently overlooked. Maddening! The typical dialogue ensued: “Aaargh! I thought you said you cleaned this out!” “I did!” “Well, the feather must have fallen out of your effing wand then, because guess the eff what?”. As you may have noticed, I'm trying to watch my language here, so I may as well not relate the rest of that conversation. Suffice to say that the next couple of hours were not all that scrapbook-worthy.

When all was said and done, we had this:

That's right, there was no room in the truck for my bike, and so it traveled the entire distance strapped to the trunk of the car. I kept telling myself that, since the ride was double-suspended back there, it was highly unlikely the bike would escape it's bonds in pursuit of a second life as a grill ornament for a semi, but my anxiety drove me to repeatedly check the rear-view mirrors for signs of evasive action in our wake. In fact at every stop I was all over that trailer checking straps and chains and seeing to the welfare of the occupants of the car - the cats.

Cats and travel. I may be the first person in the world to actually put those two terms together separated only by an inclusive. This pairing is nearly never a comfortable one, and in fact during one motel room-to-car transfer, one laminated corrugated-board top-loading pet carrier was rendered useless when it's occupant (Harley) surged through the side of the thing as if it had been made of wishful thinking. Fortunately we were still inside and were able to block his escape. Not all felines find the ride itself that harrowing however:

Boris seemed quite happy to observe the world hurtling by.

Once past The Dalles via I-84 our final glimpse of Oregon saw the hills and dales mantled with snow. Glorious.

A note about my photography. It sucks. I'm aware of it. I simply have no eye for composition, and putting a finer camera than I own in my hands would be akin to giving an ape a sharp rock and pointing at the Monolith. Given that we had little time to sight-see per se (as in, get out of the truck, stroll around, offend natives at our leisure), still I feel my efforts at what I call dashboard photography are fairly passable. Nothing I could do could really convey just how awesome (in the truest definition of the word) is the landscape through which we traveled. Having been valley-hugged in the Northwest for so long, I had forgotten how the vistas east of the Cascade Range illustrate the breath-taking vastness of the West and of the Earth as a whole.

The missus is fond of trees. I like them myself just fine. They're pretty, they provide shade, and they help make oxygen which comes in handy most days. This sort of landscape, though, has always spoken louder to me. It's the Earth with the gloves off.

I'm wishy-washy about my belief in divinity at times, but this is the sort of evidence that straightens the spine. The above photo was taken in Utah somewhat near Arches National Park. I wish we'd had time to visit the park, but soon, soon. We saw a LOT of trailers and vehicles bearing mountain bikes; slickrock is a big attraction in these parts. The little woman suggested that I try that style of biking, which isn't surprising given that we'd been in a truck together for most of two days by then and we'd just recently increased my life insurance.

It was at this point of the journey that we received a phone call from the owner of the moving company that was due to help us unload at our destination. Folks, it's never a good omen when your moving guy calls you on the phone and you can hear that he's choking back tears. The missus had arranged the details with this fellow initially, and she had voiced some reservations about him; nothing definitive, just a “feeling”, not distrust, just a...thing. Well, turns out he was calling to inform us that he would be unable to fulfill the contract (we'd paid the rental company to arrange for the unloading service) because the state of New Mexico had shut his business down. Well. Marvy. The prospect of unloading and lugging every single stick we own up a flight of stairs after having spent three days on the road led to about an hour of frantic phone calls until we found a service that would fill the gap at almost literally the last minute (Manny and his crew with Two Guys and a Truck will forever have our gratitude and I recommend them to anyone!).

We stuck to interstates for the trip through Oregon, Idaho, and Utah, but upon crossing the Colorado border (we only nibbled at the southeast corner before turning due south into New Mexico) the most direct route demanded we segue to state routes. I prefer the smaller routes...except when it's dark, raining, and we're traversing mountain passes. This should be entered into the Olympics as an X-treme sport. My hands and forearms were cramping by the time we emerged from the last one. You can understand why there are no photos of that leg of the journey. All you would see is a wet windshield or the reflection of my distorted face, lips peeled back in trepidation. So much traffic met us as we wound through these passes (almost all huge trucks, of course!), and so poor the visibility, that I had the brights practically disco-strobing the entire time. I'll hang-glide that route before I ever drive it after sundown again. (Neither will I ever again drive I-15 through Salt Lake City; it was like the Death Star trench scene in Star Wars except I didn't have any blasters with which to defend us from the rampaging Mormons.)

We finally made it to our new place at about 10 p.m. Wednesday night, and we were so exhausted that we just yanked cats out of the car and left the truck and trailer parked at the curb. We slept on the floor of the apartment while the cats roamed what I'm sure to them was some sort of gulag.

The next morning we had movers and a cable installer in at the same time, and it all went without a single hitch.

We signed our lease contract that day as well; we actually had no legal business inhabiting the premises before then but the management here have been nothing but gracious and accommodating. I even managed to hook up the digital box, television, stereo, DVD player, and VCR so that all work together as they should, and I don't believe one “eff” passed my lips, which is a nigh water-into-wine miracle (nor did I perspire much over it; yay for an arid climate!).

As I finish for now, the wife is busy returning phone calls to practically everyone we've ever known. Excuse us, we've been a might busy this last week. Speaking of which, I must now close this in order to continue clearing the floor of debris from this nesting process. More photos and blather are forthcoming.

Thanks to everyone who helped make this happen. We do appreciate you all, and miss you much.

L8trz.

East-Bound (But NOT Down, Really)*

2009-03-28T06:26:00.001-07:00

This will be the last entry composed within the state of Oregon. I'm unplugging all the toys today, rendering unto Caesar, and scraping the last bits into the nearest box. Tomorrow afternoon we load a truck, and if we have the stamina we just might blast off for the next sunrise by late tomorrow night. I seriously doubt it, but it's been discussed.

I packed our coffee pot yesterday. That tastes like a mistake right now. When the little woman rises we'll make our sleepy way to a coffee shop, but it's not yet six in the ayem and she'll sleep until seven. My very veins are howling.

I want to say Thank You to everyone who has made this place a home to us. We will miss you all. I've passed the new address around, and anyone who didn't get it initially may ask those who did to share. As soon as we've made landfall and hooked up this machine I'll beam greets.

And, y'know, you're always welcome to visit us UP here in Albuquerque.

Adios, mommies and poppies.

* Albuquerque's elevation ranges from 4900 to 6700 feet above sea level.

A Post Of No Apparent Consequence

2009-03-09T11:50:00.001-07:00

I have a cold. This is great because, y'know, it's an excellent excuse to take a break from my hectic schedule and kick it on the sofa with snacks and cartoons. My conscience and my work ethic isn't taking a hit here at all. Oh no. I've earned a rest. I'm having fun. I'm on vacation!

I am SO freakin' bored.

Found an apartment in Albuquerque, check. Arranged utilities, check. Reserved a rental truck, moving supplies, and loading/unloading help, check. Almost every aspect save the physical labor of the move itself is accomplished. Twenty days remain to repaint this apartment (thus to ensure return of the deposit), schedule cable and broadband for the new digs (Comcast wouldn't schedule transfer of services more than two weeks before the activation date), and pack up all the pictures and knick-knacks. We'll start all that next week, because why have cartons stacked around too soon? So instead...holding pattern. Waiting for Godot. Except I want to go find Godot and yank his metaphorical ass back here so we can get this circus on the road. I don't want him offstage being all enigmatic, I want his sleeves rolled up and carting our junk down the stairs to an open and waiting truck. In fact, I want Godot to be my bitch.

I'm a bit shame-faced to admit that I...WE...already feel a sense of separation from this place. It's taken only the loss of a job, stacked against the assets of friendships, a decent place to live, and an interesting city, to completely unravel our connection to a place we've called home for over sixteen years. What does it say about us? I may have flights of fancy at times but rarely do they manifest in reality to the degree that they warp the paradigm (Paradigm Warp! Band name!). Of the two of us, I'm the one usually given to analytical paralysis. It seemed unwise at the time to risk what stability we had when we moved up here in 1992, and now we're doing it again? We're mad as hatters. I hate moving! Things could go horribly, tragically wrong! We should be protected from ourselves!

We are SO psyched.

First thing after we get moved in and oriented, we're going to join an astronomy club and eventually buy a good telescope. New Mexico boasts some of the deepest sky around, and we're gonna go digging in it. We're also going to get a pair of rock hammers and go look for geodes. As above, so below. Also: Learn Spanish. It's stupid that we've spent most of our lives (other than in the Northwest) in the southern states and have only absorbed, like, ten words of Spanish, eight of them related to food.

Job? Yeah, need one of those. I'd like to say that it won't be yet another warehouse gig. I want to do something else now. Bookseller? That sounds terrific until you consider that you're not paid to read the books. Maybe something tech-related? I know how to surf the Internet fairly efficiently, and with two forefingers and one thumb I can rip along at, say, fifteen words per minute. I've just recently introduced myself to one Linux distribution (that being Ubuntu), so what is that worth? Hmph. Food service? I'll join a carnival before I do that. Don't prospective employers actually read blogs these days? Oops.

Before we can do ANYTHING, we have to wait. That's the difficult bit. Meanwhile, I haven't been on my bike in a month. That changes this week. Just not today, because my lungs are full of glue. Hell, I'm going to stop this and go lie down. Colds, they suck the suckness.

Limbo

2009-02-22T11:20:00.001-08:00

Seems like a year since I wrote anything, but that's because my schedule is all fnarkt. It's a little difficult to maintain a routine when one main facet of it is gone. I've been trying to pretend I'm on vacation, but one downside of adulthood is that it gets harder to buff the rust off one's disbelief suspension.

Via the wonders of the Innerwebz and the majick that is Google Earth (have you used this? It's AWESOME), the missus and I have been hunting apartments in Albuquerque (and is "Albuquerque" the only word in existance that contains two "q"s and three "u"s? It used to be "AlbuRquerque", as in Francisco Fernández de la Cueva, 8th Duke of Alburquerque, the founder of the city of Albuquerque, but for some reason they dropped an "r", and okay, no more parenthetical asides this long or containing this many commas), and have managed to decide upon one main candidate and a couple of alternates. All are near the foothills of the Sandias and all have decent ameneties. We have also decided to manage the move via one 16-foot rental truck and a car trailer, with the addition of two hired loaders on this end and a pair of UNloaders in ABQ (the little woman isn't physically capable of helping me carry the heavy stuff down a flight of stairs OR up a flight of stairs to the new place; I suggested that, just this once, we could lease a ground-level unit, but she has security anxieties and my suggestion of simply scattering thumb tacks around the doors and windows at night was met with that slight shake of the head and roll of the eyes that has always served as our particular means of silent communication). I hire labor for moving because I can never bring myself to ask friends; why ask people to do things you KNOW they'll hate? Doesn't seem very friendly, nome sane?

I'm trying mightily to maintain a positive attitude about this adventure, but I get tunnel-vision something fierce when it comes to moving; I mean I have been known to draw diagrams, even. With a little imagination I can see myself shoving little shipping cartons around a huge table-top diagram of each apartment like I'm Patton preparing to head off a bulge. The packing itself is merely a tedious slog, and the loading I leave to alleged professionals, but in this case we'll have to drive the truck and THAT fills me with dread. Twenty-two hours of driving almost 1400 miles to an unfamiliar city, and towing a car yet. What if I underestimate the length of the trailer when I change lanes, and scrub someone off the freeway? What if I stop for fuel (that will cost nearly $500 for the trip, by the way), and get the box stuck because I didn't have the necessary clearance? Do we dare to afford ourselves a night in a motel and run the risk of our stuff getting stolen in the night? Add to all this the thrilling prospect of transporting three cats (once we've cornered them and wrested the broken bottles from their paws). Every worst-case scenario comes lurching and slavering up from the inky depths. If I allow it, this stuff will drive me mad, which in turn will drive my wife mad, and her brand of madness is the-very-earth-split-asunder variety. It is in my best interest to find a happy damned place with this whole process, or I may find myself on the side of the road in the desert watching the truck pull away in a cloud of disgusted dust.

Actually, that doesn't really sound bad at all. I like to walk.

I had an idea to try to earn some extra cash for the trip (and beyond) by writing a series about this whole relocation business and submitting it to Associated Content. I wrote a first chapter and submitted it for review...and that was most of two weeks ago. I've not seen or heard a thing. This does not inspire confidence. Ah well. I'll be researching other alternatives, and at the least I can chalk it up to gaining experience. In the meantime we'll fax off the leasing application to the first-choice apartment community in Albuquerque on Monday and start sifting CraigsList for packing materials. We'll keep you all posted on our progress. If any.

endit

Suddenly There Was This Door/Ass Connection

2009-02-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

Fourteen years in one job is just loitering anyway, right? I was once kicked out of a Sambo's Restaurant for loitering, and I recall being much more upset about that. Is this maturity? Or has the numbness simply not worn off yet?

I am not bitter. The company whips treated me well and fairly, and have pledged to call me back once business improves, or provide me with a glowing letter of recommendation when and if I approach another employer. I can't ask for more than that.

It looks like we'll be moving from Portland much sooner than originally planned. Albuquerque, here we come (or maybe...Guadalajara?)

Under Pressure

2009-01-25T12:31:00.000-08:00

Because I enjoy trying once in a while to stick it to The (pasty white but stupifyingly wealthy) Man, I am right now attempting to burn a copy of a Linux OS called Freespire. I've wanted to try a Linux distribution for some time but have always talked myself out of it; my inner geek only willingly comes out for Battlestar Galactica and movies made from comic books these days. This particular distro is allegedly easy for Windows thralls to use, so I'm gonna give it a shot. I should tell you that I have turned a computer or two into smoking rubble in the past, so if I'm not heard from for awhile (I mean longer than this time), you'll know why.

It's snowing. Excellent.

The missus and I watched Tropic Thunder last night. It was offensive AND funny as Hell, and about thirty minutes too long. Robert Downey Jr. received an Oscar nomination for his role, and he won't win because the Academy doesn't give major category awards for movies like that, else John Belushi would have won at least one Oscar before he "sniffed the long long line". Be that as it may, Robert Downey Jr. is actually very convincing as a black man, albeit a black man stuck in 1975, like he'd just gone AWOL from the set of Starsky and Hutch.

I had an appointment with my doctor this last Friday. My blood pressure was 104/70! That was the second time; I asked the nurse (or the blood pressure technician, or the not-the-doctor -- I never know) to take it a second time, from the other arm, because I didn't believe 104/68. I had to ask if this was acceptable because I'd never heard of that first number ever being lower than 120-something unless it was on one of those hospital shows on The Learning Channel where the patient's blood pressure was low because most of his or her blood was on the floor or on the doctors. I was assured that it was fine, which made me happy because that means I keep taking the hydrochlorothiazide instead of upgrading to one of those medications you see advertized on television where the disclaimer runs longer than the list of benefits for the product itself, and that's with the voice-over guy talking reallyreallyreallyreallyFAST. (Is it my imagination, or is every other ad on television now for either pharmaceuticals or automobiles?) Anyway, I assume my increased physical activity of late is partially responsible for the decrease in blood pressure, so now I have to ramp up the exercise. I have another follow-up scheduled for May, and I seriously want to be as fit as possible by then.

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but the missus just informed me that over half of charitable donations in this country are given by households earning an income of less than $100,000. I hear this kind of thing and just get all Trotsky up in here. It sort of makes me want to fill the first donation barrel I come across, and then pitch it through the windshield of the nearest luxury car. That's not terribly mature (and I'm actually a big believer in civic order), but I can't help the way I feel. Maybe there's hope yet, though. The next eight years (yeah, I said eight) may see this country started on the road toward the revolution it needs.

(By the way, the missus told me this when I went to the kitchen for more coffee. She's sitting at the dining room table reading the newspaper. She didn't enter the room like a Valkyrie in an opera proclaiming this bit of information. She's not given to impromptu announcements of nonsequiter and unsolicited factoids, like "Sixty-one percent of Albanians enjoy Barry Manilow" or "Mites live on eyelashes!"*. That's usually my thing.)

*This apparently is true, AND, as offered on this website, you can shop for mites at Target!

I'm visiting the gym later this afternoon, where I'll have to squeeze in with the New Year's Resolution crowd. You can spot the members of this group easily; they're the glum-looking ones sitting listlessly on the equipment between sets. Like TEN MINUTES between sets. When I go to the gym I'm a pretty focused guy; I go from machine to machine in one circuit and then go around again. Saves time and keeps me on the move. So when I come across one of these fleshy speed bumps idling on the next machine in my circuit I have to resist the urge to snap them with my towel, particularly if the individual also happens to be talking on a cell phone. What is it about people and these got-damn devices? Are people that afraid to be out of touch for a few freakin' minutes? If we ever do get nuked I suspect the electro-magnetic pulse will kill half of these idiots due to withdrawal, long before the blast wave reaches them. "Hi, it's me, did you see the pretty bright light just now? Hello? HELLO!!?? Oh, GOD!! *uurgk!!*".

Oh my. The missus is offering me pancakes. You may go. *flapping a hand dismissively*

Backward Glance

2008-12-21T11:11:00.000-08:00

I just tried to find a few Grinch-y quotes to include here but all I found was a quote from (yeah) The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, and even that passage holds snow in schmaltzy regard. I could keep looking, but maybe it would be best if I just said what was on my mind straight out, which is I hate snow. It's all pretty for, like, an hour or so as I gaze out at it from the cozy blanket-strewn nest of my armchair, and yes, there's a certain frisson of schadenfreude as I observe the cursed souls below on the road, forced to imperil their health and insurance rates, but beyond that it sucketh as none have sucked in the history of suckdom. I am not a fan of snow. I gave up the wonder and awe alloted for snow when I was ten, when I and my family returned to the states from Puerto Rico and I was rudely reminded that much of the rest of the world was allowed to dip below thirty-two degrees Farenheit AND precipitate at the same time.

So now I've missed precious hours of wage-earning from last week and apparently can anticipate a few lost this week, all due to this wretched white pestilence. For a white Christmas I do not pine, is what I mean to infer here.

Okay. Shake it out.

This is my desktop. That road in the picture is cutting through the landscape of West Texas, not far from Abilene. I was in a nostalgic mood yesterday, and so went looking for pictures of old stomping grounds of my youth. I claim Abilene as my home town even though I wasn't born there. My place of birth is a town called Cuyahoga Falls in Ohio, but my family moved to Roswell, New Mexico almost immediately, as if they bore guilt. Come to think of it, the places I've lived all have been sites of bizarre events. The Cuyahoga River caught fire a few years before my birth, the Roswell area has it's UFO mystery (that the citizenry subsequently embraced with a tacky tourist-trap fervor), and Texas has a deeply unfortunate voting history (except for Ann Richards). I can't think of anything about Portland that stands out other than it's home to THE crankiest liberals I've yet encountered, but then I'm a cranky liberal and so I can't stow thrones, can I? ANYWAY. I was in a nostalgic frame of mind and so I looked for pictures of places I've lived and then navigated to eBay to look for stuff I had as a kid. Ah, eBay. I hardly ever buy anything from it, but it's da shizz for wallowing in yesteryear.

My first lunchbox! It's not the Daniel Boone of the television series; this Dan'l seems less politically correct, what with swatting the injun heathens with his musket-butt o' caucasian frontier justice. I loved that lunchbox anyway.

My second lunchbox! The Seaview was coool. I'll still sit and watch an episode of the series if I happen upon one, painful as they are to watch now (Richard Basehart made a better Ishmael than a grumpy admiral, and David ("Al") Hedison made a better man-fly, but that's 'sixties sci-fi drama, folks.

The Seaview was so cool I tried to take this rubberband-driven bath model home with me after a visit to see my aunt and uncle and cousins. Cousin Nate objected. Hey, I was seven years old; what's mine is mine and what's yours is mine unless I get caught trying to smuggle it out of your home under my coat.

Major! Matt! Mason!! After seeing a really scary movie called The Green Slime, I had my Major do battle with a large lump of green Play-Doh. Often Major Matt didn't win. Actually, now that I recall, that wasn't MY Major Matt Mason. It was a friend's. After watching the contortions and agonies his action figure endured at my hands (with horrid screams of "OH GOD AAAAAUUUGHH!", because even at ten I was all about authenticity and "method"), my friend wasn't too keen about sharing any of his other stuff. This was actually repeated a lot during my childhood. My brother's G.I. Joe "with life-like hair" just barely survived a Martian death-ray attack (care of my magnifying glass) that left him mostly life-like hairless and disfigured, a state that my brother tried to reproduce with living flesh once he'd discovered what I'd done.

Tinkertoys. I made weapons with these. Yeah, like you didn't.

I had a Rennaisance chess set like this. I haven't played chess in years (and I suck at it anyway), but I used to play a lot when I was young. In recent years I've tried to win one of these sets on eBay and and have been outbid every time. Obviously I'm not the only one who loved it.

Good memories (for me, anyway; don't you love being dragged along somebody else's self-indulgent trips down Memory Lane? Yes. I know that you do.)

Going to cobble together a brunch. Not so oddly, I'm peckish for a bologna sandwich prepared with Miracle Whip on gluey white bread, but to get it absolutely right I'd have to enclose it in a tin lunchbox and let it sit at room temperature for four hours. Perhaps an experiment for another time.

L8rz.

Rob Part Duh-huh: The Fleshening

2008-11-30T15:16:00.000-08:00

I'm listening to Gregorian chant. I'm in an a capella mood today I really ought to burn a copy of this disk and play it at work, see how many people pitch themselves head-first out of the dock door. Then again, somebody might complain, or worse yet try to take my disk out. Most of my fellow associates were hired later than five years ago, so they don't know about the time I threw my clipboard and broke a wall clock during a dispute over musical selection. I'm somewhat calmer these days. Somewhat. YMMV.

Ooh, I sound like a tough guy don't I? Oooh. But no, I'm actually this big teddy-bear of a guy. A panda. Pandas are cute and fuzzy even at 500 pounds (or however big they get -- I'm not Marlin Perkins and I'm too lazy right now to look it up), and they just sit and nibble bamboo. This is me. Of course, who knows what a panda will do when his bamboo shoots are ripped from his paws, or when someone tosses his music around. Mad Panda. There's a band name.

Pardon me, I had to put SOMETHING on the screen. I've been staring at it for like five minutes.

I've been looking around for ideas for cash flow augmentation and have been kicking around the idea of writing articles and/or ebooks. Apparently one can write and publish on the 3W and either offer subscriptions, or have one's scribblings underwritten by advertizers who strategically place ads with one's masterpieces and pay a few coppers for each click. Sounds interesting. Sounds crassly commercial. Sounds like I need to investigate further. I have nothing against tasteful commerce, but I'd rather my readership avoid the risk of seizures brought about by luridly-colored and flashing adverts. If someone is beset by involuntary spasms and bowel movements, I'd much rather it be as a direct result of reading my junk. Anything for a reaction. C'mon, who else but attention whores write blogs?

One possibility presented to me by a nearest and dearest: Pornography. And y'know, on the face of it, it's not a bad idea for someone who has finally lost all self-respect for himself. Sex sells and all that. Here's the rub, though (*snicker*): how does one go about genericizing smut? Can I stoop to writing standard "Tab A in Slot B/C/D" scenarios, sanitized to the nth degree against anything that represents my personal predilections? Because, boiz 'n' grrls, I don't want anybody in my head that far. Really. What I find erotic is my own bidness and I think that (#1), many of you wouldn't care for what I have scrabbling and croaking back there in the dark recesses, and (#2), I wouldn't care to share it with you anyway, outside of a very secure room with plastic sheeting and a Costco-sized box of handi-wipes. Actually, should my personal shudderies become known, I'd probably be mortified by the reactions of friends and associates regardless of whether they were, uh, supportive.

One Reaction: "Have we met? Umm, gotta go. Hell NO I'm not shakin' your hand!".

Another Reaction: "Dude! What are you doing in my head?? Awesome!"

If I decide that I really prefer cash over common sense, I'm sure as Hell not going to use my own name. I'd have to choose something genteel-sounding to offset the fact that the writer has elected to debase him(my)self. Nigel Fappington. Fenton Slappy-Smythe. Okay, getting silly now.

By the way, if I ever elected to engage in cyber-sex (which I do NOT because it's awkward and giggle-inducing), I would follow this guy's example. Go read it, I'll wait...

As I've mentioned before (and will probably state again and again until the deed is done, thereby ensuring that there will be sighs of relief all 'round when we finally DO hit the road), we intend to move to the southwest within a couple of years. Albuquerque, Las Cruces, Roswell, and even Abilene (Texas, not Kansas) are possibilities. The biggest question for me is HOW to move. I do not relish the idea of pulling a trailer behind a car filled with humans and cats. That's how we came to Oregon, with a swaying U-Haul 8X10 flapping streamers of orange tarp and a doped up orange tabby gnawing on my ankle in a druggy delirium. I would love to have our furnishings hauled overland separately while we took the train, but I've never traveled via rail and have to research cost aaand okay I just did and it's $352.00 for two days of three trains and two bus transfers no-uh freaking-uh way-uh. I'd rather walk and drag the missus and the cats via travois. I think flying will have to do. And then I intend never to get on another freakin' commercial aircraft again. That love affair died the last trip we took.

Really, I must go. I have other things to accomplish besides chin-wag with you lot.

Exhibitionists and Voyeurs

2008-11-02T15:22:00.000-08:00

It's gettin' weird. I have to practice my best dance steps to avoid all the rolling heads these days.

Aaaand that's all I'm sayin' about that.

Today I must strap the halogens on the bike. I must say I'm looking forward to riding in the dark again, even though the rain seems to have started in earnest. The rain itself doesn't bother me at all, but I'm not really that jazzed about riding through minefields of slippery fallen leaves. Or over wet manhole covers.

Those hazards aside, the most common threat is running afoul of the local ninja bikers who think it's perfectly cool to ride without lights in dark clothing. This behavior is not cool. It is the antithesis of coolness, actually. It is as cool as, say, bungee jumping with razor wire instead of bunjee cord, but really ONLY as cool as that. That's pretty much as cool as that gets, which is to say: NOT COOL. And the NOT COOLNESS is exponentially exacerbated when I run into your invisible ass on the trail, or have to swerve around your rapidly cooling (but NOT COOL) body lying in the street because somebody else in a much larger, heavier, speedier vehicle found your hindquarters equally indiscernible. I swear to you, I wouldn't blame a motorist or anyone else for going Sam Jackson on one of these jerkweeds even as he/she lay oozing into the gutter.

"Oh EXCUSE me! Did I just run all over your right to treat the street like a playground? WHAT? What the fuck does "pluhbluh" mean, asshole? Is "pluhbluh" your retort to my query concerning my inadvertent trampling of your arrogant assumption that OUR STREET is actually YOUR STREET, motherfucker? Is THAT what "Pluhbluh" means? Because if THAT is what you mean to infer I must tell you that I have a further counter-argument that ordinarily would entail the placement of my SHOE on your got-damn HEAD, except your head is somewhat the WORSE FOR WEAR right now, ISN'T IT, BITCH?"

I'm mean. It's been a week.

From the "Ewww, this is SO not where I intended to be" files: I was looking around for a new music video to put on my page a couple of nights ago and ran across an old favorite by Filter called "Take a Picture". While watching it and mulling it's potential I saw also listed another song they did called "Hey Man Nice Shot". That got me thinking, I wonder if they really had Kurt Kobain in mind when that song was written?, and so off to Wikipedia I mouse to dig the skinny. Well, it turns out no, they apparently didn't. Instead they were inspired by a politician named Budd Dwyer, who's claim to fame is that he ate a very large handgun during a televised press conference in 1987. I was sufficiently intrigued by this sordid story to follow another link or two and...there I was watching the footage of his suicide.

I'm not a ghoul, but I found this fascinating on two levels. Here we have a man who first praised his family members for their support of him and then scrambled his brain in public and with cameras rolling so that the chances were very good that they'd get to witness it at some point even if they weren't all watching it as it happened. What sort of ego allows for that logic? And then there's the footage itself. Why does it exist? Why did I not see sudden black as the camera was either shut off or hitting the floor, the cameraman having discarded it to plead with the would-be suicide in the name of decency? But no, what I got instead was the whole red enchilada, and immediately afterward a zoom-in close-up of the dead man's face, eyes open in that disinterested way the dead have. That was perhaps the worst thing about it, that the cameraman either valued his paycheck more than another life, or was thrilled to be there to witness the carnage. And then here I am watching it 21 years later, revolted, appalled, and still watching. Jesus, I felt ashamed of myself.

So I made myself feel better by firing up my QUAKE III game and splattering some enemy combatants. I felt curiously cleansed.

Later this afternoon my plan is to go walking with a camera. The colors this season are stunning, and I don't know if it's because they truly are more spectacular this year or if it's just that we've made up our minds to move and suddenly I want to record everything I see to take with us. Like I feel guilty for not taking snapshots this entire time we've been here. Actually, I do feel guilty. I have a Flickr account that has almost nothing in it. Beats me why we have two cameras, let alone one. We were going to take a camera with us to Dallas, but no, we didn't. I have friends on MySpasm that have hundreds of pictures in their profile, and I have nearly none. It's like having a life but not being able to prove it. That's asinine, but there it is.

Nap-time.

Orpheus Shmorpheus

2008-10-05T11:52:00.000-07:00

Jesus, I just spent an hour screwin' around with chat program skins, to no effect; I decided I liked the one I'm already using. I waste too much time sitting here doing that kind of stuff. Looking at wallpapers, tweaking the operating system, downloading worthless programs to try and then promptly forgetting about them because, after all, they did NOT enrich my browsing experience as promised. Even when I intend to do legitimate research in aid of something actually worthwhile I more often than not end up on YouTube for hours. A structured and disciplined mind I have not.

The Missus: "Did you find the medical website you were going to look up for me?"
Me: "Heehee! Look, a ninja kitten!"

That thing about about the neighbor? Resolved. The wailing and gnashing of teeth has abated and we are all once more on speaking terms. Rather than go to the mattresses, we had a sit-down. Bada-bing. Also satisfactorily managed: My Bike Challenge stats remained uncompromised and I pwn'd in both mileage and percentage. Pretty damned happy about that. Oddly, no one I know is suitably impressed. All this AND I've managed for yet another couple of weeks to keep my dissatisfaction with my position at the dust mines down to a dull nibbling sensation (this is no one's fault; it's all this talk of our - the little woman's and mine - proposed relocation to Albuquerque that has me suddenly champing at the bit at the promise of change. You know how, when you've decided to move to another apartment or house, the tiny inadequacies and annoyances of your current residence start to eat at you? Same thing, except, uh, bigger).

Oh, I don't think a parenthetical statement should be almost half the length of the paragraph, do you? Say it ain't so, Joe!

The dream I had last night was an odd one (well duh) and I think the relocation plan played a part. In the dream I had moved (alone; either my dream-self was unmarried, or my dream-missus was appalled at the nature of our new digs and had left me) to a neighborhood of plain, cube-shaped concrete sheds. The neighborhood was constructed in a grid pattern, with roads intersecting at every interval, i.e. on every side of each shed. There was a constant stream of slow traffic, automobiles idling forward as if in a drive-in theater cruising for a spot to park. The interior of my shed was quite spacious and entirely bare except for a bare light bulb overhead and a drain in the middle of the floor. I had arranged my furniture around the drain. I was very pleased with it.

Now I have lived minimally at various points in my life. At one time the only furniture I had was an army surplus cot and a card table, with a portable stereo and a library card my sole sources of in-home entertainment. I was quite content with that lifestyle once upon a time. This dream abode, however, once I woke up and had time to ponder it, was just a bit too Jame Gumb for me. I could place lotions and baskets around just for fun to make friends snicker, but since I keep my circle small it would probably wear thin quickly.

I actually have moving dreams often, and always they have an element of difficulty that my dream-self doesn't mind but my wake-self finds puzzling if not horrifying. A "house" in another dream resembled a vast furniture showroom, with tables and lamps and chairs everywhere and with an old, warped screen door with a hook-and-eye fastener being the sole entrance. The street outside looked like a slum, with unshaven, menacing persons peering in as they shambled past the door. In another we (my wife apparently liked this one enough to stick around) bought a two-story house with a narrow stairway to the second floor, that floor being where the previous tenants kept all the pianos. Like, thirty or forty pianos. I would have to trundle all of them downstairs and out of the house before we could move in. I want to ask my wife later, "What, a nice big empty room with a handy drain in the floor is divorce-worthy but you'd be happy to watch me shift forty pianos down a flight of stairs? What the Hell?"

It's fairly obvious I have security anxieties, but if they provide fodder for dreams I'm good with it. I even enjoy the nightmares (after I'm awake; I've had nightmares wake me in the night and realized they weren't real only after having taken a few steps toward the bathroom). Most are just odd and become vapor soon after I wake, but some have stayed with me for years. This might be unusual, I don't know. I've never had a dream scenario into which I wanted to disappear, but they make damn fine entertainment. Well, usually. My sex dreams never turn out well. Ever. What good is it that my dream-self is magnificently endowed if my otherwise lovely dream-partner's vagina is a snapping squid's beak? No matter how well these kinds of dreams start, I always seem to end up in Cthulhu's House o' Humps or something equally bizarre and horrible. I've stated elsewhere that sex, for me, is vastly over-rated, but if my subconscious is going to make me dream about it, couldn't it at least make it pleasant? Just once I'd like to wake from one deliciously sprawled and languid 'neath the dampened sheets instead of shivering and in a fetal position.

The morning toast and newspaper awaits. Adieu.

This One Is Rather "Eff"-Intensive...

2008-09-14T10:22:00.000-07:00

So. Great. Lovely couple of weeks these last were.

Another neighbor situation has gone DefCon and beyond. Scratch another relationship. Which begs the ages-old question: "What do all of your failed relationships have in common, hmmmm?" But ah! Fuck you, questioner, because I can't help it if wolves wear the latest wooly fashions now can I?

Wrenched the muscles of the right side of my shoulder and neck while performing a military press at the gym. Lovely. I have to pivot at the waist to turn my head in that direction...

...except NO, I can't right now because I gave myself a lower back spasm yesterday morning. From rolling out of bed. Another speed-bump on my road to become the uber-athlete I know I am on the inside (and there should be those two dots over the "u" in "uber-" but I'm not keyboard-savvy enough to know how to do that).

Crunching numbers has led to the inevitable conclusion that I must seek more overtime at work ("more" in this case meaning "some" or "any" because I'm allergic to overtime and have been fortunate to avoid most of it for the last, oh, say, thirteen years; I likes my personal time and I won't apologize for it). Beyond that I may have to begin seeking options for a second income if we're to make sufficient headway toward our goals. If we're to move to Albuquerque in two years' time, we want to be as close to debt-free as we can manage. Alas, most of the overtime in the next month is already claimed for...

**************WARNING! BIKE STUFF!*****WARNING! BIKE STUFF!*************************

...new wheels! Yes! I walked into the bike shop to get new brakes and a diagnosis for that damned tinking noise I keep hearing, and am informed in short order that my rims are close to collapse. The sidewalls have actually been sculpted into a concave shape and apparently it was only a matter of (a very shockingly short) time before the wheels became less wheel-like in the rolling sense and more bomb-like in the spokey-shrapnel sense.

Thus instantly a $50 maintenance bill became a $150 avoidance-of-grievous-injury-and-maybe-even-death bill. Which is actually pretty cheap when you consider having to be collected from the pavement and resuscitated is much more expensive, I know, but unexpected and unwelcome nonetheless. Plus, in two weeks I get to spend another $89 for the front wheel (I have only the rear replaced now; it was the worst) and the tune-up and cleaning I had slated to have done (another $99). AND I have to finesse all this time-wise because it has to be in and out of the shop the same day during the week so that I don't mess up my standing in the Commuting Bike Challenge. Which means I have to ride the bike to work, have the missus pick me up to take the bike to the shop, take me back to work, then pick me up again to collect the bike, and take me back to work again so I can ride the bike home.

Wow. I just realized this is not only stupid, it negates the leave-your-car-home-and-bike! ethic which is the main reason for the Bike Challenge. Okay, I'm not doing that, and that means sayonara to my standings. Fuck!

So. Friendly relationship down the khazi. Deepened debt. Narrowly-avoided bike carnage and not-avoided Bike Challenge fuckage. If this month so far was a fortune cookie I'd have sprained my thumbs cracking the fucker open.

Well. Y'know? It'll get better.

Labored Prose

2008-09-01T09:53:00.000-07:00

Happy Labor Day.

Shouldn't that be No Labor Day? Sloth Day? I Feel Like Eating Burnt Meat In The Back Yard With Your Deadbeat Relatives And Their Shrieking Brats, Don't You, Honey? Day?

We're going to have The Princess and her mum over for grilled hamburgers and hot dogs (and brats, as in bratwurst; my tolerance for the other variety is limited to one). The missus will preside at the grill because as I've stated elsewhere, I don't have the knack.

This is also the first day of Isabella's incarceration (that would be her word for it, if she even knew it existed) with us, because her MiMi (Isabella's name for her mum) is leaving for Phoenix tomorrow morning. She's taking classes for something-or-other there and will be gone all week. I think school starts this week too, so today's festivities might just as well be The Last Meal Of The Condemned for our dear young lady.

One thing I have to do today is clean my bike (it seems I mention cleaning my bike a lot on here, more than I actually, y'know, clean it, so I may just start putting a line of asterisks before and after any sentences that pertain to torturously mundane crap I've written again and again so that you may be forewarned and allowed the opportunity to skip over or bail out). Anyway. I actually do need to ************clean my bike************today because I entered into the Bicycle Transportation Alliance's Bike To Work Challenge and I need to know that the squeak-tink I keep hearing from somewhere near my drive-train isn't the harbinger of some catastrophic failure the godz will use to punish me for actually setting a worthy goal for myself. It would figure that, just when I seek to re-invigorate my interest in cycling to work -- I've been lazy the last few weeks, only managing twice a week on average -- my machine would choose to fly apart with me astride it. So I'm giving the machine a good twice-over today, maybe let the bomb-sniffing cat have a look (that, I hope you understand, is a joke; the only way a cat would find a bomb, or in any way have the inclination to search for one, is if the bomber had been kind enough to smear tuna on it).

On the subject of bombs and cats:

The missus and I have pretty much decided that there is an end in sight to our residence in this area of the country. Within two years we hope to pull up stakes and move on down to the southwest. At this point the plan (nebulous as it is) is to move to Albuquerque, New Mexico. The wife's illness might be somewhat alleviated by more arid environs, and I've always loved the desert. We're excited by the prospect but I'm daunted by the details. I'll be walking away from a job I've held for fifteen years (by then), and so will have to begin casting about for new sources of revenue soon -- as in NOW -- because those younger people who drove from Texas to Portland hauling an 8'X10' trailer full of everything they owned, and with no predetermined employment awaiting them at the end of their journey to a strange city? My hat's off to those hardy souls, but they just didn't think things through, honestly. You see, you must PLAN, and you must plan to have a plan. That's the only way to be assured of success. The apple must fall halfway to the ground before it falls all the way, and it must fall a quarter of the way first...

Yeah, see, I always drive myself crazy with that kind of thinking. I'm that way simply moving from one apartment to another in the same complex. I'm task-oriented rather than goal-oriented, as in "I'm really busy tending to this little thing, dear, so can you go chase that big thing that's scrabbling at the front door away?". The fact of the matter is that it was the missus who got us here, she's the one with the devil-may-care and the guts. If it were up to me I'd still be debating the pros and cons of leaving the womb (which might explain why I would catch my mother looking at me sometimes with pursed lips and a slight shake of the head). I wallow in minutiae, the wife is already hanging draperies. I envy that. It's funny to me -- in the way that kitchen fires are funny, I mean -- that rash decisions we make together always seem to work out well whereas the ones I've made alone have almost always ended with bruised flesh and/or annoyed authority figures. As a team member I do ehhh okay. As a solo act I'm The Destroyer of Dreams.

She stirs. I must tend her whims. We'll speakest anon.

We Blog At Dawn...Or Not

2008-08-10T10:47:00.000-07:00

I've changed my schedule and it's taking a while to adjust. I had been getting up at 4 a.m. during the week so that I could go to the gym at five, and it worked well for most of two years but lately I'd found myself watching cartoons (yes, yes, now go read someone else's blog and feel superior) for two hours until SWMBO got up. Not terribly constructive, so I decided to shift the gym schedule to after work so that I could still enjoy time with the missus both in the morning and evening.

Oddly, and actually counter-intuitively, my muscles are not exactly over the moon about this. I'd have thought they would cheer and say "Thank You! We are all now limber and warm before you make us work so hard, whereas before we were sleepy and grumpy! To honor your wise and kind decision we will reward you with a few more centimeters to the biceps, 'kay meng?" But no, apparently muscles are more like cats than dogs, an analogy that seems even more fitting when you consider that an over-worked shoulder does feel as if it's being mangled like a catnip toy. They'll just have to get with the program, because this schedule is sticking around. It's nice not to have to go to bed at freakin' 9 p.m. I can record the cartoons.

The gym crowd in the evening is different from that of the morning. It seems that all the moaners and screamers prefer later hours (insert your own tacky joke here). I'm a quiet toiler in my pursuit of a taut and powerful physique, but some of these other fellows sound like they're passing stones. I find it a little difficult to concentrate for that last trembling rep when the guy behind me suddenly yells "GUH-KUH-KUH-GLAAHH!" and then drops the 300-pounds he'd been using on the floor as he walks away (always with his head down as he towels his face; I suspect that what he's really doing is stuffing an eye that ejected from his head back into it's socket). I never hear women do this. Is it truly a gender thing? The very few times I have yelled like that during a strenuous effort, I was near coma some seconds later, so in this context I believe it's actually the gym equivalent of pawing the ground or beating the breast except it comes after and not before. "HELLO! I HAVE JUST LIFTED THIS ENORMOUS WEIGHT AND HAVE SQUIRTED YOU WITH MY PERSPIRATION FROM EIGHT FEET AWAY, THUS PROVING MY INDOMITABLE STRENGTH AND MY WILLINGNESS TO HURT MYSELF TO IMPRESS YOU ALL! WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE PICK UP MY EYE OVER THERE AND BRING IT TO ME?"

I've noticed that men always look at these other guys grunting and screaming, but the women never do. Just an observation, dudes.

A fellow member in a forum posted a thread suggesting people take photos of where they live. I might, if I can get my other chores done today, go out walking in the neighborhood with a camera. This would be a healthy thing to do because before I can get to a neighborhood I have to travel a mile or so because our apartment complex is in the middle of a light-industrial area. Unless I want to take photos of the Goodwill and the half-mile of straight, boring road leading out to more interesting architecture, the better bet is to walk to downtown Milwaukie and on to the neighborhoods beyond.

I took some photos on the Springwater Trail on my way home from work at Spruce 'n' Abuse some months ago...

...but I need to get some skillz because I'm almost never happy with snaps I take. Photography in the hands of the gifted is a favorite art of mine, but as yet I don't seem to have the knack. I just need to make myself take more photographs, but it's just not something I think about ordinarily.

Here is where the magic happens, by the way:

At least so far we've been left to ourselves this weekend. The wife needed a break from tending the kid and her little friends. That's what happens, one kid becomes four or five because of course she wants to play with her friends and then they're all over here and the missus is suddenly mommy-surrogate for them all because some other mothers can't be bothered. Annoys her (and me) no end. Plus, Lil Angel is morphing into quite the little princess who is convinced that anyone taller than she is a servant. The missus and I have discussed it, and we have decided we are going to school the young miss in the proper ways of adult/child dynamics (pardon me while I rub palms together in malicious glee). I love this kid, and I'd rather she not grow into yet another mouth-breathing, resource-consuming drone, because folks, we have enough already. This might sound like an anti-youth rant. Tough. I was in danger of becoming one of those myself once upon a time, and I consider myself fortunate that I had parents and others who were willing to make me absolutely miserable for a chance at a useful life. This will sound so clench-jawed John Birch-y I'm sure, but kids know and deserve everything unless caught early and convinced that they don't. It's just a Truth.

Wow. Soap box be a-creakin' mon.

Love (most of) ya. L8erz.

Almost Forgot How

2008-08-01T20:06:00.000-07:00

That was some hiatus.

I have no excuses. I allocate my time poorly when not bound by an enforced schedule. Plus the Internet, she sings the siren song and leads me astray to dash my good intentions against the jagged rocks of my Favorites menu. Do not Tread this Path, curious Pilgrim, lest ye Kill four Hours and Tempt the Wrath of thine Spouse.

Attended the tent sale at Joe's last Thursday and bought a couple new pairs of kicks pretty much at the insistence of the missus, who for some reason believes the world at large will judge her for my admittedly lackluster approach to personal dressing habits. It's true, my work sneakers were approximately eight years old and had started to look as if they were molting to set free a pair of sandals, but they were comfy. What do I care what my workmates think? It's not a singles mixer, for Christ's sake. But no, I had to wade and wedge between racks and racks of clothing and shoes with about a three million other citizens who'd lost their minds when we all decided to go shopping immediately after work. Seriously, I simply can't imagine a better way to follow up the workday than shuffling in circles with a bunch of other tired, annoyed folks. On an empty stomach, yet. I finally worked out that the faint rumbling noise I kept hearing was everyone else's stomachs clamoring to be fed too. After a bit it sounded like a language. A grumpy language.

By the way, is there anything sillier than putting on a new pair of shoes straight from the box, taking perhaps five whole strides in them, and saying to yourself "Yes! Perfect!" as if those few steps are an adequate test of footwear you'll soon be wearing all day? My work sneakers felt terrific at the store (uh, tent); wore 'em to work the next day and by noon it felt like I was standing on a church pew. Stores should provide lease-to-own options on shoes.

The danger of shopping for me is that, too often, my inside voice shoves it's way out the screen door and stands on the front porch in it's tatty undershorts. The missus says "Ohh, these are nice, what do you think?", and I'll wander over and say something like "Yeah, those aren't bad at all. How much?" I'll read the price tag. "F***, MY EYES!". I'll turn to look at my wife in disbelief, but she's suddenly become intensely interested in something else at the end of the aisle. It's a pity when it happens in a restaurant, because her avenues of escape are limited. She's learned to shrug and smile apologetically and simply say "Tourette's".

So two pairs of shoes and five t-shirts and one pair of shorts later we finally queued up to make our escape. There was a woman with one arm in a cast standing sentry at the exit (tent flap) checking shoppers' receipts. I wondered about the arm; was it a non-work-related injury? Or did she bust her elbow across a would-be thief's jaw? I sort of prefer the latter scenario. By the time we were out of there I'd wanted to use my own elbow a few times.

I just had a vacation and here I am looking forward to taking more time away. This next time will be closer to home, however, because as fun as the trip to Dallas was, it wasn't all that relaxing. I can't really relax in other peoples' homes. It doesn't matter if they're related to me, I'm just not fully at ease in any environment save my own. A nice three-day weekend where I can loll on the sofa and eat popcorn and watch television or read sounds ideal. Cripes, a nap now sounds nice; why do I get up so damned early on weekends? (Answer: A cat who could give a crap about what day it is, time to get yo' ass up and make wiff da tuna, punk!)

Just for different I'm providing below a short list of websites I like. No particular order of importance, just places I like to visit.

EuphoricArythmia -- Nice forums, nice folks. I go by 'Rob of Earth' there.

ForumGarden -- Same here. I'm 'The Rob' when I log in.

YourHomeForum -- Aaaand another one. Look for 'I, Rob' here, if you've a mind.

Mike's Amazing World of DC Comics -- I love comic books and graphic novels.

Alien Loves Predator -- It's warped. I love it.

Wondermark -- A favorite online comic. Genius.

What sounds good for breakfast? Any freakin' thing right now. Time to join the missus at table and peruse the morning newspaper. See ya.

2008-06-15T11:30:00.000-07:00

This is the house in which I spent most of the first eight years of my life. This is 1003 N Plains Park Drive in Roswell, New Mexico. This is a very recent picture; it didn't look like this when I lived there. Odd that I don't remember the color of the house when I lived in it, but it wasn't this color. I seem to recall that there was a tree in the front yard, and that pole jutting up from the ground on the left side of the frame used to be a yard light, fashioned to look like an old gas street lamp. It used to be black.

The back yard was girded by a chain link fence, I remember that very well. Who is the sadist that would build a chain link fence in a climate that often provides temperatures of 90 degrees and above for three months of the damned year? I'm surprised I wasn't branded for life.

Lately I've been wanting to go there, to Roswell, and stand on the sidewalk and look at this house. Haven't got a really good reason to do that (other than the drive there would make for a really great road trip!) but nostalgia can be a powerful motivator I suppose. I liked living there when I was a kid. I talked to my brother Bill about this urge I have, but he can't really relate to it. He was all of four years old when we moved from Roswell to Ramey Air Force Base in Puerto Rico in 1967. He doesn't remember it. He doesn't even remember standing in an ant bed screaming his head off in the alley as our mother dashed to his rescue and I did my big brother part from a safe distance: throwing my hands up and yelling "Well move for cryin' out loud!" I was also probably laughing too, because I was one stupendous jerk of an older brother (and also not a terribly bright one, since I never learned not to tease and laugh at his expense after he'd grown enough to punch me out).

*****************************************************************************************************

I got a call from the clinic last week regarding my physical. In summary, I was told I need to cut back on sweets and carbs and get more exercise, but that it didn't appear I was in danger of falling down dead without help from outside influences. Okay, fine. I'm on the program and have a goal to be healthier and more svelt (svelter?) by the end of the year BUT...the vacation trip is hands off. I will not behave myself for that week. Many are the times I have denied myself this treat or that one, but there'll be none of that in Dallas. This trip is about relaxation, couch-trippin' and watching DVDs and computer gaming and drinking and actively seeking fried, fat-laden foods. Oh, I'll do some core work and use my brother's BowFlex (last time I was there it was serving as a very expensive coat rack) and I may even convince myself to do long walks in the relative cool of morning (82 F and 98 per cent humidity). The rest of the time? Chillin' in the true sense of the word. Have I said that Texas is the air-conditioning capital of the world? If all the air-conditioners in Texas were to shut off at once, the abrupt drop in pressure would quite possibly send the Earth wobbling right out of orbit. I kid you not.

I'm looking forward to this trip way too much. I actually hate anticipating things because when I'm doing that I'm not paying adequate attention to what I should be doing now. Probably everyone's like that, yes? Look forward to vacations, look forward to retirement, look forward to the next cigarette break or sexual encounter or television show. This is actually why I'm going to start walking again, walking for the exercise but also walking for the enjoyment of it and no other purpose. When I walk just to walk, no destination in mind, it's living in the moment. I notice and can appreciate the neighborhood, the trees and yards and houses, the different aromas and sounds, the cracks in the sidewalk. I get some of that from riding the bicycle too, but even that too often is mere propulsion toward an end result because I'm usually riding to and from work. It's not wandering. I want, need, to just wander.

The missus and I have decided to make more trips to the seaside from now on, and strolling the surf, for me, is the best therapy and antidote for Too Much On The Brain.

Dang. I need to toss some groceries down muh neck. Later.

Knock Knock! Who’s There? It’s Meee! Um...Is That Mace?

2008-05-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

It appears our downstairs neighbor has moved out, or is in the process of doing so. Night before last we found a plastic bag containing various books we'd loaned her hanging on our doorknob. It was good of her to return them (although one might argue that the message conveyed had nothing to do with either honesty or courtesy) but this situation sucks and, quite honestly, I could do with having no neighbors ever again. Well, except for our next-door neighbor Donna who is a sweet lady and apparently has no vices whatsoever except Christianity. We're going to petition her to look after the cats while we're on vacation in Dallas. But other than her, I would like it if we had an armed perimeter (armed with blueberry tart cannons; I'm not Satan so I don't wish death or dismemberment on anyone, but blueberry stains are a bitch and so that would make anyone on a clothing budget think twice before knocking on my damn door).

I went in for a physical exam Friday afternoon. The "exam" turned out to be a simple Q&A re: How's Rob Feeling?, with nary a syringe or rubber glove in the room. I described my various aches and pains (few and minor, all things considered), and voiced concerns about weight gain after quitting smoking (I am really frustrated and depressed about that and so my habits henceforth are going to be as Spartan as I can manage without wearing the brushy helmet). My blood pressure was 130/82, which isn't bad but annoyed me anyway. With all that out of the way, now I can schedule a real draw-and-poke physical with a lab. So is this how it's done these days? Was she simply screening me? If I was in radiant health, would she have said "We don' need no steenking pheesical"? Or in the event of really poor health, "Look, there's really no point here, I'm afraid. Why don't you just go home to your recliner, flip on the tube and relax with a tub of chips and let Nature take it's course"? I'm in the middle, so I get to starve for twelve hours and then have strangers stick me with stuff. Really glad I only have to do this once a year. Or so.

Of course she had to bring up the magic number 50 and the way adults these days celebrate it: The First Colonoscopy. She read the expression on my face and said it was okay, they knock you out for it. I seem to recall Katie Couric getting this done on live television, yakking away as a tiny camera broadcast The Inner Katie to the masses. Is my physician lying to me? Or are news anchors really made of nerveless plastic as I've always suspected? All of this I suppose is necessary due to fun family habits such as aneurisms and cancer, but that doesn't make it any more comfy. For anyone who demands a sphere of personal space be honored at all times (like me), a physical examination is highly uncomfortable. I'd give it a skip if I didn't know that my wife would warp space and breach the sound barrier to get me there.

Let's me talk about something else.

I'm thinking.

This is harder than it looks. I wish I was like some of the bloggers I regularly read. Some never miss a week and the words just flow out of them like, uh, like flowing stuff. Me, it's like giving myself a haircut with pliers.

We actually had a thunderstorm that lasted more than thirty seconds last night. Awesome. I was outside for a few minutes of it, escorting an elderly drunken neighbor (another self-made victim; we tend to attract them somehow) across the parking lot to her apartment, then back to our own apartment because she left her purse there, and then back again to let her into her place. Then back once more to our apartment where I decared to my wife that I would never again let another human being through the front door. I sound so like a mean person, don't I? You can be honest. This isn't news to me.

I am actually looking forward to our trip to Dallas but my focus in thinking about it is just me sitting in my seat on the plane reading a book. Just that. I have no idea why, but reading during a flight is one of those special pleasures for me. Since there are four of us going together, one of us will be seated behind the other three. I volunteered to be the odd one out. This probably won't spare me unnecessary conversation but it might curtail it a bit. The missus and I have agreed to share one suitcase to check, so we'll only have to pay the robber barons of the airways $15.00. Isabella always travels with a zoofull of stuffed animals and junk, plus the steamer trunk of snacks, and her mother will probably have to bring her own closet-load, so I forsee a cha-ching! rendered in basso profundo for her at check-in. I'll have to be alert in case she swoons and crumples to the floor so I can safely step back and out of the way.

My goodness but I have a bad attitude this morning.

I hear my neighbor downstairs, so I have to go eavesdrop. See ya.

Last book read: From A Buick 8, Stephen King (It's a keeper!)

Book currently reading: Darkly Dreaming Dexter, Jeff Lindsay (Great so far.)

Mostly Blather

2008-05-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

I have a brilliant idea for a screenplay, if only I had the wit, discipline, patience, and stamina to write it. A man has regrets about choices he made in his past and seeks to rectify them via time travel (like, he finds a machine, or steals one, or maybe he signs up as a volunteer for the testing, or maybe he just helps a gypsy change a tire and she's really grateful...see, this is where it gets really hard and I'd rather go watch television and have a snack), and he seeks to accomplish things he failed the first time around (a career in the United States Navy, say, or managing not to become a felon, or maybe writing a screenplay). Here's the gimmick: he has to fix all the wrong turns he'd taken while preserving the life he has in the present. That means he has to keep going backward and forward to check his progress and correct the missteps he's inadvertently causing in his quest to tie up all loose ends. He must finesse events so that all the bad judgements he made and crimes he perpetrated are erased without screwing up his future present (ay-yi-yi). This is what makes my story unique, see; no altering his present life, because his life now is how he wants it. No vengeful righting of wrongs done by some villain, just the protagonist attempting to swab his own decks. No tragedy for which he feels responsible and feels compelled to prevent, unless you count the many disappointments with which he's laden his friends and family as he's blundered his way through his own life and theirs. Does/did, had/has; cripes, just writing the thing down has me dithering over tenses.

No, I don't think this sounds like The Butterfly Effect at all. Was that a good movie? I haven't seen it. At least my idea uses a time machine. Or a gypsy. My gypsy would be CGI.

Have I stated that I love getting up before dawn? On weekdays I rise from bed at 4am and on the weekends by at least 5. I started doing it because it was difficult to fit gym visits into the after-work hours, but I've come to love this time of morning. Actually I always have, but now I'm appreciating it as I stretch and start the coffee and fire up the pc, instead of getting up from the keyboard and shuffling off to bed. Yup, on weekends I used to stay up all night, then collapse into bed and sleep until nearly noon. That's Saturday and Sunday, half of both days shot, and I got to carry around a screaming yawn in the back of my throat the rest of the day. I blame that scourge of the playground, the one that your parents and teachers begged you to avoid, the World Wide Web. I must admit I'm an addict. The Interweb, she is like the woo-mon who leads you down the alley and then streeps you of your self-respect as she shows you feelthy peectures of Alyssa Milano. Yeah, okay, I'll knock it off.

Speaking (typing) of the Internet, in my rambling travels through the ether I found a website called the zinester's guide to portland (no caps; does anybody besides me freakin' bother anymore?) that allows you to find stuff around town via catagories, complete with clickable maps and reviews. You could spend hours on this thing. Cheggidoot. I probably found it by way of surfing bicycles websites, but surfing for me is so stream-of-consciousness that I can't be certain. Maybe I was on Wikipedia. I spend a lot of time on Wikipedia. Actually I'm on it right now. No, it's not my sole research site, I always cross-reference ma, jeez. It is the first stop, however, and it's like walking into the library without a specific book in mind. This also explains the barely-catagorized rummage-sale heap that is my browser's bookmarks folder.

You may be surprised to learn that there is no pornography in my bookmarks folder. Nothing. At all. That I would call pornography.

It's a lovely morning. I should give the bike a cleaning, but circumstances with a downstairs neighbor suggest I do it on the balcony. I really hate having neighbor troubles, those uncomfy moments when we come face-to-face in our comings and goings, particularly when we used to be friends, but it can't really be helped. This is why I used to fantasize about lonely duty at an arctic station. Sartre wrote "Hell is other people", and there are times I'm prone to agree. Ah well, perhaps we'll only have this problem for another month.

Okay, here's ten more. Chew slowly!

26. I suffer from fairly severe dysmorphia.

27. I have 26 teeth left in my head. At age 14, four molars were surgically removed due to over-crowding and impaction. At age 22, two were removed because I feared dentistry, not realizing that ignoring a huge cavity for so long would ultimately end with a dentist's knee on my chest as he pried two molars out the old-fashioned Wild West way. It's not fun to hear a dentist grunt with effort. Thank the godz for happy gas.

28. Every summer I'm tempted to use spray-on tan because I can't tan naturally without cooking myself like a ham. I can't use the spray-on stuff either, however, because it always splotches and streaks and I wind up looking like the living embodiment of a Grateful Dead concert.

29. Animal abuse enrages me and I would without hesitation bludgeon someone into a coma for it.

30. My moral values are very important to me, and I loath myself when I step off the path.

31. I'm pretty certain no one would really care for my turn as Emperor. Count your lucky stars.

32. I'm allergic to "celebrity news".

33. I drink far and away too much coffee. When I quit smoking I thought every other attendant vice would abate. Nope.

34. I love driving through the desert at night with Mexican music muttering through the static of the car radio. Actually, hearing the radio stations wax and wane on a road trip is one of my very favorite things.

35. I have a highly-developed sense of olfactory memory.

Time for Sunday brunch. Exit.

Time Travel

2008-04-20T08:00:00.000-07:00

Isabella, Cathy, and I watched Superman (the 1978 version with Christopher Reeve) yesterday. It was my first viewing of it since, well, 1978 I think. I actually expected that someone might have to slap the goofy grin from my face as I watched it, gleefully wrapped in cozy nostalgia, but instead I found myself rolling my eyes a lot and fidgeting. No disrespect intended for either director Richard Donner or the cast, but MAN that was awful.

I don't blame the film. I blame 1978. That was a smuggly year, boy. Forget about the special effects that might as well have had the wires painted Day-Glo orange, the real unsightliness was all over every poor cast member and extra, in the form of really bad clothing choices. Who thought that plaid was acceptable for a suit jacket? Or pants? Or hats? The best bit in the movie is the pimp on the street voicing his approval of Superman's outfit. That speaks volumes.

I graduated high school in 1977, so by the time this movie was released I was well on my way in my quest to seriously fuck up my life. So let's see what else was going on in 1978.

* The Academy Award for Best Motion Picture went to Annie Hall. Loved it. No flying wires apparent.

* The Most Popular Song was "Shadow Dancing", by Andy Gibb.

I used to hate disco. I would listen to Kiss before I'd listen to disco. I'm not kidding. Now enough time has passed that I can wax nostalgic about both disco and Kiss (I just made the 19-year-old me of 1978 wake up in a cold sweat).

* The Jonestown Massacre. Apparently you can fool at least 900 people all the time. Or, well, long enough.

* First test tube baby - In vitro fertilization. A "Zowey!" medical breakthrough thingy, but I'm not sure this was really an "advancement in humanity" thingy. Time will tell, but you know Lex Luthor would have grown a YUGE army by now.

* Ultrasound first used. Ultra-groovy.

* Garfield the Cat was syndicated.

* Love Canal in New York was declared a federal disaster. This refers to an actual canal. As in water. I feel I must clarify this, as we're discussing 1978 here and in certain publications in which certain biological amusements were described, the phrase "love canal" was used often in a way that had little to do with municipal waterworks.

* Space Invaders was the most popular arcade game so far as I knew, since every arcade and pizza place had one and people actually lined up to play it. I didn't play it that much, being more of an Asteroids player (at which I also sucked).

Isabella has come in to sleep in the chair behind me. She's stayed the weekend with us. I'm clacking away here and she's snoring. I'm going to have to tease her about that later, because she's always giving us grief about it.

I am, against all common sense, looking forward to the Dallas trip. I even posted a "freeway tour" of Dallas on my MySpace profile page, courtesy of YouTube. I like my job just fine, but I'll admit to that sense of "This again!" when I roll into the parking lot these days. I just need to see some different stuff for about a week. Get away from our neighbors. Drink more than is good for me. Eat grilled and fried foods. Sweat while sitting still. Hopefully stand outside during a lightning storm. In short, I need to hit the reset button. I need to get out of town before I really do wear out my welcome.

Oh, and that next installment of the "100 Things"? It's coming. Just not today.

Out.

I'll Regret This

2008-03-30T07:45:00.001-07:00

We’ve revisited winter this last week, and I contracted a cold at the very same time. So, yeah, go me.

I’ve managed to work through it, but it hasn’t been pleasant what with having to constantly traipse into the warm and cozy environs of the Eloi to deliver bits of paper and then rejoin my fellow Morlocks in the heat-starved caverns. I’ve so far managed to deal with it by imagining myself an agent of germ warfare; they’ll start dropping in their tracks this next week.

Yesterday we had every sort of weather imaginable: snow, sleet, hail, rain, wind, sun. I never look at any day as "miserable", but I’ll admit I’m looking forward to warm, clear, sunny days. Not that I could fully enjoy a day like that at the moment seeing as how I can’t manage to inflate my lungs all the way, but it would at least be nice to look at from inside. I could at least go out to the parking lot to wash my bike. It would be nice to do SOMETHING with it, because I haven’t ridden it in a week.

Boy, this is one sad sack of a blog entry. Maybe I should do one of those horrid "100 Things About Me" lists. I doubt I’d get very far unless I included shoe size and the like, but it might be elucidating. At least it would fill the blank space so I could stop doing this and go do something one Hell of a lot more engaging.

The First Twenty-Five Of A List Of One Hundred Things About Me That You’ll Probably Wish I hadn’t Bothered To Write

1. I am of Dutch, Cherokee, and Irish lineage (The Dutch explains my miserly ways and the Irish and Cherokee throws some light on the drinking).

2. I may be an alcoholic.

3. I hate being touched, especially around the shoulders. People often do this for fun and I try to laugh it off, but I really want to cripple them for it.

4. I have a fear of heights.

5. When I was a kid I looked just like the fat kid in The Far Side comic strips, the one with the buzz cut and the coke-bottle eyeglasses. Boy, there’s some fond memories of my formative years.

6. My favorite ice cream flavor is tiramisu. Actually, tiramisu is a favorite dessert.

7. I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. (Okay, I’m lying, that’s a line from There Will Be Blood. I might lie here and there in this list. More fun for me.)

8. When first meeting people I always assume they will dissappoint me in some way.

9. When first meeting people I always assume I’ll dissappoint them in some way.

10. I hate talking on the ’phone.

11. I hate waiting for others to stop talking on their goddamned ’phones.

12. I was born in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio in 1959. The Cuyahoga River caught fire in Cleveland in 1969, so I’m clear.

13. I love looking at lovely women, but it’s an aesthetic that has almost nothing to do with sexuality, or at least it rarely involves sexual fantasy of the sort that includes me. I think this means that I admire a woman’s appearance as an open-minded homosexual man would. Ye Gods, this bears thinking about.

14. I believe sex is vastly over-rated.

15. The smell of marijuana makes me physically ill. I don’t want that stuff anywhere near me.

16. I’ve decided that I lack the organizational skills and the discipline to be a successful serial killer. Not that I had any concrete plan to be one. It’s just a thought I had while watching Dexter the other night. Really, it just looks like it would be exhausting.

17. I despise bigots and will publicly ridicule them at every opportunity.

18. I enjoy listening to Jimi Hendrix while blogging. Jimi Hendrix, as a musician, is one of the few icons I willingly embrace from that era. All the rest of that "hippy" crap leaves me cold.

19. I’m in love with the idea of a benevolent God, but in truth I think the Earth (Gaia) is the closest thing to the concept. Gaia isn’t consciously benevolent, but it takes no stretch to understand that the better we treat Her, the better off we are.

20. I used to enjoy acting on the stage, and did quite a few plays in civic theater. When I was younger I wanted to go professional, but that was back when it felt as if it was the only thing I would ever do well.

21. I think I’ll never be half the man my father was, and I still miss him.

22. I haven’t had a physical fight in fifteen years. I’ve actually had relatively few fights, perhaps because when pushed I do "Cuh-RAY-Zay" pretty convincingly.

23. I loath being photographed by other people and will never submit to it gracefully. Go steal someone else’s soul.

24. I’m physically modest to a fault.

25. I’m a high-functioning sociopath.

I had to change the title of the list because this is hard work, man.

Do you feel cheated out of five minutes and a worthwhile blog entry? You should.

Well, Maybe Not THAT Much Heat...

2008-03-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

So. My hair is now blue.

Emboldened by the fact that I was not sent home from Sliver Central for not acting my age some weeks ago, I have replaced the (now more lilac) purple with the sort of blue you only see in those household duster thingies one uses to sweep cobwebs from ceiling corners. It's cool and spiky. It's also turning the backs of my ears blue, something about which I am not thrilled. I also had to sleep with a towel across my pillow last night. My hairstylist assured me that the intensity, and the propensity of the dye to tint everything and everyone with whom I come in contact, will fade quickly and thus render it more manageable and less strident. She also said that my first shower will look like a scene from CSI: Smurf Town.

Why do I do this sort of thing? Because middle-aged men in my tax bracket can't purchase Ferraris, and secret affairs with strippers don't usually come with EZ payment plans. Not that I would do those things anyway, but I mean to say that these options are closed to guys like me unless I learn to cook meth or knock over banks. So. Blue hair. I like the look, but probably won't keep it for more than a couple months. At the end of June we're visiting Dallas (Texas), and in the Original Red State it's best to adopt protective coloration.

Yeah, we're going to Dallas June 29th. The absurdity of dying my hair an unnatural hue pales in comparison to the blatant insanity of venturing to Dallas Texas in the summer months. The humidity! Last time I visited, the temperature only rose to 85 or so and still it was like wading hairline-deep in broth. Then I would step inside and be instantly frozen in place by the arctic caresses of the air-conditioning. I've gotten used to the inside temperature being fairly close to the outdoor temperature (the Northwest doesn't overdo the AC), but in Dallas the difference is, like, fifty freakin' degrees. Walking out of any public building is like strolling into a furnace from an igloo. The doors of malls and grocery stores vibrate with the stresses of internal vs. external atmospheric pressure, I kid you not.

This trip we'll be accompanied by Isabella and her mum, Lisa. Isabella is all agog over the water parks. I loath water parks. I'm not a water person anyway. I don't really swim (I can thrash my way across the width of a pool if you have half an hour to watch), and I had rather a terrible experience in the surf at a beach on Puerto Rico when I was eight years old*, so water is nice to look at from a safe distance but not something I necessarily want ON me unless bathing is an imperative. So the ladies may go enjoy their natatorial pleasures. Brother Bill and I will content ourselves with other forms of liquid in front of his television watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 DVDs, or perhaps trying to whack each other at Call of Duty.

Or we'll drink and Bill will grill various animal parts. Bill has a grill the size of our car. I missed the grilling gene, but Bill's all over that stuff. He watches Alton Brown and those guys on the Food Network, he buys fancy cutlery and crockery, he loves to try new recipes. Me, I eat. That's my contribution. He grills, I eat it. YOU grill, I'll eat YOUR stuff. I'm happy to help. Ask me to actually cook anything and you just don't realize what you're asking for. I suck at cooking. I just don't have the patience, so I'll either hover over it and fuss and flop the stuff around in the pan and get bored, or I'll get distracted and light myself on fire or slice an artery. If you're standing too close It's possible I'll find a way to maim you too. Ask my wife. Best leave that sort of thing to the enthusiasts.

The tough part of the trip is the air travel. I don't mind flying per se (well, once we get up to cruising altitude anyway, where the distance to the ground becomes abstracted; not so fond of seeing stuff race by at 500 mph from only fifty feet off the tarmac, to be honest), but the queueing up and the luggage handling and the dispensation of all my personal weaponry is tedious. (Here's a tip: put all of your metal bits and valuables in a ziplock bag so you don't have to waste time fishing junk out of your pockets. Works a treat.) I learned one thing from my last trip: never again will I carry on luggage. Last time I could only stow my bag a full third of the cabin away from my seat, and when the plane landed I had to practically crowd surf to retrieve the damned thing. Actually, I should have done that. Crowd surfed. That'll teach 'em. Anyway, this time the only item coming with me on the plane is a book. Okay, maybe two. Non-stop flights both ways, so fortunately only a bit under four hours each way. Our son's significant other has offered the use of his vehicle for the week so that we may travel where and when we like, which is just terribly cool of him.

The missus and I will each take a camera on the trip, so upon return I hope to have photos of Big D to post. Christ, I wish we could just go NOW, but that would defeat the secondary purpose of the trip: reminding the missus of one of the reasons we moved up here by subjecting her to the heat of a Dallas summer.

It was her idea.

* I was knocked down by a wave and thought I was drowning. The lifeguard ignored my choked pleas for help, the bastard.

Sturm und Drang

2008-02-10T13:00:00.000-08:00

Man, I'm really behind on my blog reading. I gotta get busy or I won't know what people are talking about anymore. Same thing with the forums; these folk are gonna forget who the Hell I am. Just because most of my social interaction happens on the InterWeb doesn't mean I ain't busy!*

Last week was somewhat eventful. Firstly, a certain furniture store** declared bankruptcy and threatened to take our money with them. We ordered chairs weeks ago, the chairs were delayed in shipment, we waited more weeks, and then the chairs were sold out from under us to satisfy prior orders. My wife received a telephone call informing her that if she didn't come to the store to select something else by the end of that business day (the call came at 7:30 p.m. and the store closed at nine!), goombye cash and thanks for shopping your friendly court-protected den o' thieves. So now in our living room we have a chair we didn't want (although it is a nice one and looks good in the space), and it's mate is in a warehouse somewhere waiting to be picked up. The missus was livid of course, but couldn't bring herself to scream at the store staff, some of whom she said were skittering around as if any second they would have to fling themselves to the floor to evade small arms fire. These people were as blind-sided as the customers and may not even be employed as I type this.

Meanwhile at the dust mines, a memo from on high informed us that we will all have to troop on down to the clinic in a few weeks to be tested for recreational pharmaceuticals. I'm of two minds about this. On the one side I'm somewhat annoyed that I'd even be included in this, as I think my lengthy employment record indicates a degree of focus and function that precludes any dalliance with unlawful substances. On the other side I understand that the Powers That Beat can't play favorites, plus I get to spend the odd idle moments at work looking for those darting paranoid glances in the eyes of my fellow laborers (Excuse me, I didn't invent schadenfreude; it's a terrible yet natural reaction in the human psyche. The evidence is in our entertainment industry). I hope they're tolerant of my urination performance anxiety.

Also this last week, a coworker and fellow bicycle commuter had a chance encounter with one of what I like to call the biking dead, those EEG flat-liners who nonetheless are somehow able to drape their synapse-starved limbs over a bicycle and pedal it. This freaking town is full of them. This particular BD, a female of the order, exited a sidewalk via a driveway and entered my friend's path of travel perpendicularly, whereupon she was T-boned by 230-odd pounds of strapping cyclist and single-speed. Mowed her like grass. He in turn flipped arse over tea-kettle and painfully came to rest on the asphalt as his bike did a pirouette above him and sailed into the middle of the street. These two people actually rose to their respective feet, brushed themselves off, and retrieved their wounded steeds from the roadway. That in itself I find remarkable. Another remarkable thing is that my coworker didn't pick up the stupid woman's bicycle and beat her with it. Did I mention that he was due for hernia surgery the next day? I didn't? Did I say he bought his bike (a Specialized Langster, New York Edition) only two weeks earlier and now has to put in the shop? No? Sometimes confluence is just the suckness.

Then there are the neighbor issues. Oh Boy. I'm not talking about any one neighbor here, by the way, as there are one or two that sometimes read this thing. I just now deleted two paragraphs because my editor (the missus) advised me that I was being a bit too pointed in my criticisms. Fair enough. It's not my wish to hurt feelings, nor do I want anything left burning outside my front door. Still, I'm sufficiently rankled by recent events to offer this one point to all who may take it unto their bosoms:

Please Be A Parent! Please Do Not Put Me In The Position Of Disciplining Your Children Or Otherwise Guiding Their Conduct (AND Yours) If You Wish To Avoid Embarrassment!

Again, please note that I deleted two whole lengthy paragraphs because I do truly wish to avoid bruised egos and open conflict. If you were hoping for a "not on my porch, so not my business" approach, however, you'll be disappointed. I mind other people's business only when they won't do it themselves. Then you'll mind that I mind.

I must close this now, and go do something that I hope doesn't get me sent home from work tomorrow. I think I'm safe, as my immediate superior has tomorrow off and the department will consist of me and one other guy. Whatcha gonna do? Huh? Huh? Bring it!

-END

* I agree, it's rather sad.

** Lawsuits are also the suckness.

Bring The Heat

2008-01-20T11:38:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time I was a cold weather guy. I liked nothing better than to walk to work or the coffee shop, steam puffing from my nose and mouth, brisk icy wind invading my collar, the sound of crisp leaves skittering about in the street and on the sidewalk. The kind of cold that made my unprotected nose and ears burn and then go numb, that was fine weather for me. Fine dry weather.

Then I got married and ended up in the Willamette Valley.

I've mostly made my peace with the rain. Mostly. This is the time of year, however, when those cruise ship ads on television become inordinately alluring. This is somewhat silly, actually, as my only prior experience with watercraft was a ferry in South Carolina (or was it North Carolina?) when we had returned to the States from Puerto Rico. It was over 90 degrees F and I recall the water in the harbor being somewhat choppy. These conditions are not ideal for a chubby ten-year-old with a dodgy middle ear. I didn't whistle carrots, thank Zod, but I had one monster of a sick headache by the time we debarked. ANYWAY. I watch the cruise ship ads and see the white beaches and the sunshine and begin to envy the tan caucasians cavorting on islands where the indigenous population smile widely and greet them joyfully (as silently they pine wistfully for revolution and a finely-honed machete), and my goodness doesn't that look nice. Ridiculous. I priced a cruise online once because I was curious. I had to go lie down with a cold cloth over my eyes.

The tropical paradise thing is attractive to me because when I was a kid I lived it for two and a half years. Of course I'm remembering it via the warm and vague memories of childhood. I'm discussing Puerto Rico here, where my family moved in 1967 (my dad was in the Air Force). Okay, it wasn't quite paradise; paradise doesn't feature B-52 bombers (unless you're Al Haig) and hurricanes, and bugs that catch and eat frogs, but for a ten-year-old kid it was dang close. I didn't care that we lived on an air base (Ramey AFB) in a flat-roofed house that had louvers like armor plating in the windows. I was jazzed about the coconut tree that grew in our front yard and the rat the size of a chihuahua that lived at the top of it (well, he used it for an on-ramp at least; the rats seemed to favor power lines as a form of freeway system, and the cables to our house happened to skim the top of the tree in our yard). A crab lived under our lawn mower. Lizards liked to hide under pictures on the wall for my mother to discover when cleaning house. Beaches were an hour's drive or less in our Chevy II. I would fall asleep at night listening to the thrum of power generators connected to C-130 transports sitting on the tarmac beyond a chain-link fence, across the field at the end of our street.

Sometimes I would be awakened in the night by the gentle thumps of beetles and beetle-parts striking my blanket after they'd passed through the open louvers and into the oscillating fan standing in front of the window. (I wonder to myself now: No screens. Why?)

I rode my bike everywhere. I didn't appreciate a bicycle as I do now; a bike to me then was fun but disposable, something for my dad to mutter under his breath about as he picked it up from the middle of the carport so he could park the car. When I was on the bike I was usually looking for a way to destroy it and inviting grievous harm to myself. Diving into curbs. Trying to jump ditches. Riding into rose bushes. Odd that, although my brother Bill was more athletic and physically adept than me, he'd always be the one to get something stuck in him. My parents must have despaired of either of us living long enough to graduate, get jobs, and get the Hell out.

We had kites. Man, that was the best. We could actually fly kites in our front yard, could launch them and play out the line until they were mere dots in the blue. Mine was black and shaped like a bat. Bill's was blue and looked a little like a manta ray. We had to use fishing line, the kind you fight freakin' marlins with, because the winds up high would snap anything lesser. During a particularly busy kite-flying summer, the brass on the base banned flying kites above a certain altitude because they had begun to interfere with radar and low-flying air traffic. I'm serious.

My school was called IMS (InterMediate School -- ah, the military and it's poetic soul) and was comprised of three buildings that were barracks once upon a time. They were each three stories and the "hallways" were open balconies running the lengths of the structures. One year my 5th grade class trooped out to the balcony and lined up to watch as our teacher (Mr. Genereau -- hope I'm not mis-spelling his name) pointed out all the funnel clouds circling the island. It was hurricane season, what else would we do?

When the subject of retirement comes up (briefly, and with snorts from both of us as if sharing a joke, which of course we are), the missus and I consider places like Belize and Panama and other warm-weather environs. Puerto Rico never seems to enter into the discussion, perhaps because I've mentioned to her before how the natives started strafing buses with gunfire shortly before the United States Air Force decided to close the base in 1971. That's an argument for staying stateside: as corrupt as the Old White Guys Club is, it's still one of the most stable ones to be found. Often we're tempted to let "retirement" go hang and just go now; I for one would rather begin to enjoy the tropical lifestyle before I get to the bermuda-shorts-with-knee-socks phase. After this long it would be interesting to see the sun in a different place in the sky.

What this means is that we need to take a trip soon, before we come to rash decisions. A road trip in early spring is like a reset switch. I want to visit eastern Oregon again, maybe even venture into Idaho. I need to spend a night or two in motel rooms and eat fried food in roadside cafes and take some lungfuls of new air.

This is the sort of blog entry you write when you wake up cold.

Liked It So Much I Wrote it Twice!

2007-12-16T10:37:00.000-08:00

This is actually the second go for this entry. I typed the entire thing and then lost it when I attempted to edit the title. I don't believe I can convey just how livid I am at this moment. That's never going to happen again. From now on it's WordPad first. Jesus Christ.

This has not been a good month. At all. Over the last three weeks the missus and I have suffered a two-stage malady that first stuffed our heads and lungs with cotton and lard and then pulled our intestines inside out through our gullets. It's possible we each had two separate illnesses in sequence (I've always understood that intestinal distress is bacterial, not viral), in which case we truly did suffer an embarrassment of riches. I'm nearly fully recovered, but the missus is still somewhat of a fly-blown husk. I've spent few days at the gym and just as few days on the bike. I'm looking forward to next week.

Happy Seasonings to you all. Guess what? Way out of character for me but necessitated by the continuing antiquation of this beige box before which I toil, I went willingly into a mall. You should be tittering into your hebal teas right now y'all, because I absolutely loath malls. People lose their minds, their peripheral vision, and a great deal of their sense of courtesy in malls (and yes, in supermarkets as well, but I will occasionally join the herd in search of food even if the process is distasteful), and so ordinarily you couldn't get me into a mall without first administering either a syringe or a mallet. So imagine how I feel about malls during this time of year. When I first saw Dawn of the Dead (the 1978 original with the classic, slow-moving and moaning zombies, not the remake featuring the shrieking undead pelting along like Carl Lewis), I turned to my companion and whispered "I thought this was a zombie movie. This is just the security cam at Red Bird".

We went in search of the Dell kiosk. This is actually a pretty painful process for me because the hard truth is that I'm a piker when it comes to spending money. I believe that price should be based upon weight, which is why my wife has such a difficult time getting me into a shoe store. Chances are I'll never own an mp3 player, at least not until after everyone else has had their skulls hard-wired for entertainment media and the prices for players drop to the value of pocket lint. I love gadgets even when I don't know how to use them, but anything more technologically advanced than a post-it! pad quickly soars beyond three digits and I just find that appalling. I don't know why I'm such a miser. I didn't have a particularly impoverished childhood (my parents might have had a differing point of view seeing as how they were the ones actually paying for everything) so I don't know why I feel the need to hoard pennies. Actually? That's a lie. I know why I'm a miser. It's because money flies away no matter how desperately I try to keep it. So I'm a poor miser. My misering skills are meager. I'm a miser, just not all that wise, huh!, giveitaway giveitaway giveitaway now!

Anyway. I had a specific computer model in mind, one that is terribly expensive (to me) for less power than I desired but I was really trying to cowboy up and serve our budget. I was being an adult. I had even done the research and had printed out the specs we wanted. I showed the printout to the missus before we went to the mall. She smiled and nodded. She is seemingly pleased that she has married a thoughtful adult. We drove to the mall (*shudder*) and upon locating the Dell kiosk we approached a sales rep.

Sales Guy: "Hello, can I help you folks?"

Me: "Yes, please. We would like to purchase a computer. Here is the printout of the specifications we wish to have included. I have been a responsible adult in doing my research for this item and even though it still feels as if I'm asking to be rolled like a Burnside drunk, I think this model best suits our needs while doing minimal damage to our paltry finances."

Wife: "But what about the sleek black one with the nice graphics card you said you'd rather have? Don't you want to ask about that one?"

Me: "..." (I can't speak for a moment but I'm trying like mad to spontaneously learn telepathy so that I can ask her via psychic link what the Hell she's doing, assure her that I love her as no other entity in the unknowable Universe and without her I am mere grit but DAMN, you are plucking my testicles like grapes here! BUDGET!)

Sales Guy (thinking): I ought to offer this lady a percentage. Ka-CHING!

So now we own a Dell XPS 420.

Yes, I'm happy, or will be when we finally take delivery of the thing. Shipment has already been delayed once and in all likelihood we won't receive it until after Christmas. Given the time of year and the fact that half the nation is iced up this is disappointing but not unanticipated. Meanwhile my wife went behind my back and bought both F.E.A.R. and Bioshock so that I may properly christen that fairly screamin' video card. Pity I can't play them now, but this box would actually spout smoke and tip over if I attempted it.

I'm still aching to see this month over, though.

The Lame’s Afoot!

2007-11-18T12:21:00.000-08:00

My brother has had electrical issues with his office space in his home for weeks now. He works from home and is able to use his laptop for that purpose, but his desk machines remain idle until he can re-wire and re-route upstairs. This has meant NO GAMING, and I'm jonesing just a tad here.

Bill (my brother) is the only opponent in on-line gaming I've had and the only one I want, quite frankly. I'll admit here to a bias; I don't seek other players on-line because I suspect that many of them are the same sorts of mouth-breathers that leave comments on YouTube or Amazon. I'm allergic to what I call E-egoism*, a social malignancy evidenced by persons who suffer from either an excess of personality or an absense of same and who seek solace on the internet to salve their self-absorbed needs. They're everywhere, fairly gibbering with the desire to advertize their superior knowledge and taste in all things except, apparently, literacy. I imagine that half the keys on their keyboards are very dusty. They won't let proper punctuation get in the way of their campaign to assure the masses of their raging intellect, hellz no. The gods forbid the rest of us go through Life ignorant of the fact that we are hopeless luzerz because of our enjoyment of a particular band/movie/book. I despise these people.

Anyway. I would imagine that the on-line gaming servers for any particular game are rife with this sort, admittedly adept individuals with cyber-weaponry yet maladroit in social intercourse. Brother Bill's derision is hard enough to take at times...

Me: "Damn, where are y---" *bang!* *dead*
Bill: "I'll admit you've got guts, 'cause I can see 'em. Brain much, though?"
Me: "Keep talking, I'm reloa--" *bang!* *dead*
Bill: "Ah, there it is. You might wanna pick that up and dust it off a little."

...so taking smack from a stranger, particularly some slack-witted youngster with delusions of self-worth, would be too much.

Know who's worse? People who actually are pretty smart and are quite aware of it, but choose to wield a Cause with which they seek to bludgeon all who hold a differing opinion. Case in point: Cycling zealots. Anyone who knows me understands that I am very pro-bike and believe that getting citizens on bicycles is one very significant way to improve not only the individual lives of those people but Life As We Know It. I don't perceive every human being driving an automobile as a murderous sociopath Hell-bent upon decimating the atmosphere and littering the landscape with the crushed corpses of hapless bicyclists.** Unfortunately there are those who do, and the internet forums are rife with them. If they were reasonable in their opinions and courteous to others in the conversation I wouldn't carp, but too often they are condescending if not outright belligerent (I suspect that many of these are the kind you'll find picking fights with motorists during Critical Mass rides, the sort who feel that the rules of the road are meant for others while they stand exempt. My bouts of road ire are usually directed toward these twits). I've mostly learned to simply exit a thread and to avoid those kinds of conversations. Mostly. Kind of.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dang it. SelectSmart still insists that I'm an "American Liberal". I keep hoping for a more interesting result.

Quote for the Day: "I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well." -Henry David Thoreau

* Pronounced "eeegoism". Don't give me grief over the spelling of "egoism" either, because "egoism" and "egotism" actually have two slightly different meanings.

** Hummer drivers though; what the Hell are they thinking??

Mortality: Overrated?

2007-10-21T10:12:00.000-07:00

I haven't been near this keyboard for most of a week. Once upon a time you couldn't pry me away from the thing, but these days other matters intervene. This is not necessarily a bad thing. F'r'instance, you can't blog about a life you don't have.

My life. Let's look at that a little more closely, shall we? Not "My Life", as in a biographical context; I mean "my life" as in a pondering of the likelihood of truncated longevity*. Statistically, when considering my parents' lifespans and those that went before, I have approximately twenty years before I hop that Midnight Train (is The Great Beyond anything like Georgia? Is the Afterlife muggy?). That estimate is reinforced by my unfortunate lifestyle choices; most of my life I've spent idle; eating and drinking too much while getting too little exercise, and smoking like I was allergic to air. I've expunged the worst of those, but perhaps it's too late? I've spent more years unhealthy than I have otherwise.

Then there's the bicycle. My general fitness is much improved in part because I ride pretty often, but the frequency also ups my chances of the Early Exit via vehicular misadventure (something we've seen too much of here recently). I'll take those odds, obviously, but I'll admit there are times when I join the speeding metal boxes on the road that I wonder what the Hell makes me want to do it. Actually there are times I wonder the same when on the relatively safer Springwater trail; if anything the CTQ** is worse there during peak hours, but at least my inhalation of exhaust fumes lessens.

Possibly my most potent nemesis is The Big Casino. There are incidences of cancer on both sides of the family, so the odds that I'll receive a slice of that pie are quite high. I'd rather go out under a Winnebago than waste away from the inside out, frankly. I have little say in that apparently, because I can make all the best choices in food, exercise, and lifestyle and still contract cancer because of a genetic disposition. If this turns out to be the case, I'll be SO mad.

Saint Peter: "Welcome to Heaven. We hope you'll enjoy---"

Me: "Is there chocolate cake and pizza in there? And Lucky Strikes?"

SP: "I beg your pardon?"

Me: "I want chocolate cake and pizza and Lucky Strikes, and all the other godd-- uh, dang stuff I missed out on in my useless attempt to delay this little meet'n'greet. I want some satisfaction, man!"

SP: "Uh..."

Guy Behind Me: "Dudes, is this gonna be awhile? You should have a food court out here or somethin'..."

Me: "Back off! I have bed sores and my nasal passages are raw from having tubes stuck up in there for the last year! What were you, a quick mulching accident? Wait your turn!"

SP: *flip* *flip* *flip*

Me: "What are you doing there?"

SP: "I'm making sure you aren't in the wrong line."

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

I use post-it notes to remind me of subjects I wish to research. I stick the post-its on the monitor. It strikes me as absurd that I affix a low-tech device to a (middling) high-tech device to remind me to use the high-tech device, but many people do this so at least I'm not alone.

Upon this morning's post-it are written the items "Episcopal Church" and "statism". I have already read up on these subjects. Right now I'm chatting with my brother via IM while writing this AND contemplating the fact that I haven't read any ForumGarden posts yet this week. I have to cop to feeling just a bit stressed about this, and because of that I feel foolish. If there was no such phrase as "artificial stress", there is now. Here's a fine definition of that: When the cable DVR starts stacking up with programs we haven't yet watched, I start resenting television. I'd feel better about it if it was stacked up with Ken Burns documentaries or "The News Hour with Jim Lehrer", but more often it's some on-the-fly recording from the "History" Channel (Unidentified Submerged Objects! Red Alert!). This is yet one more indication that our love of technology really isn't doing us any favors. I'm not saying I want to go live with the Amish***, but there are times I wish I had the guts to throw all this junk out and learn to once again be content with books, and walks through the neighborhood, and coffee and newspapers on the front stoop****.

Seeing as how it's getting more expensive to live, I may get my wish sooner than I expect.

Today's Quote: "If you are irritated by every rub, how will you be polished?" -Rumi

* That sentence just sucks raw.

** Clueless Twit Quotient

*** The Amish got it goin' on. I'm a fan of the Amish. I just don't think I'm cut out for the lifestyle.

**** We don't really have a stoop now. We did once, and it rawked.

***** This was an asterisk-intensive post this time around.

If You Were A Vegetable, You’d Be An Irritato

2007-10-07T09:15:00.000-07:00

The missus and my physician have colluded to force me into an appointment next month. If I don't make the appointment, my prescription for blood pressure medication won't be refilled. This bites. Generally I visit a doctor only when I'm jetting arterial spray, but my wife has been relentless lately.

I actually had planned to have a physical examination done after January 1st as part of a goal of mine to lose the rest of my excess weight (okay, RE-lose SOME excess weight and lose the rest of the weight that I hadn't lost during the initial campaign...'kay, that's stupid. What I mean is that I lost a lot of weight some years ago and kept it off until I quit smoking last year, whereupon my metabolism stuck a wicked big twisty rusted knife in my back before rolling over and lapsing into a coma) and ANYWAY the main point here is that I'd hoped to avoid getting on the scale at the clinic before I'd gotten close to the weight loss goal. I would monitor progress in the meantime via the kinder, gentler scale we have here at home. Home scales are your mother, quietly admonishing you for that second sandwich eaten over the kitchen sink, suggesting that instead you might want to take a brisk walk around the block. Clinic scales are bitch-goddesses with strap-ons. I don't like the clinic scale, mommy.

So now (except for the table-creaking fried chicken dinner of which I partook* last night) I am brimming with discipline and purpose. Salads and soups or cereals for supper Monday to Friday, no exceptions! No cookies, cakes, pies, ice cream, or fried foods. Add a couple more mornings on the treadmill at the gym (I already do at least three mornings per week but I can manage, surely) or intervals up and down that bastard hill outside our apartment here. Avoid driving the car when I can ride the bike (easy). Thank the Gods I put down the cigarettes and started the gym again, because at least this time I'm not starting from scratch and I'm not anywhere near the weight I used to be.

It would be nice to greet my 49th birthday in better shape than I've ever been.

************************************************************************

I love the eerie autumn and winter months; I love the atmosphere. In pagan circles it's thought that during the month of October the veil between worlds is thinnest, and I can see why. I love cold and fog and I'm looking forward to strapping the halogens on the bike and riding in the dark (and a side benefit is that, even in this bike-y town, the number of cyclists on the roads and trails decreases substantially in the cold months, so there are fewer arrogant, rude stick-insects with whom to share the asphalt). I plan to do a lot of walking this season. I want to walk just to walk. I haven't done that in a long time.

I'm currently reading Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach, and it's a great book. This, coupled with the change of season has my mind turning to death and what comes afterward (not in a morbid way). I've never been a fan of the Islamo**-Judeo-Christian tradition of a petulant deity tossing folk into a pit of eternal fire (or ice, or river of excrement, or swarm of wasps; read Dante's Inferno sometime to see how a repressed Italian Catholic poet would settle some scores if he were God Awmighty. Man, that guy can hold some grudge!) If people actually do live on in spirit regardless of what they'd done or how they'd died, and in fact all the harm done was to the mere flesh, what sense does it make to bury some murderous fool up to his neck in hot coals (or whatever) while his victim kicks back perfectly healthy on a cloud sipping ambrosia and learning to play the harp? Wouldn't it be easier, and kinder, for all involved to greet everyone at the gates with a handshake (or maybe a really fierce noogie if a particular he or she gave you a really bad time when you were both Earth-bound)? Wouldn't it suffice if, since everyone is now going to live forever in peace anyway, the bad people in Life just sheepishly admitted to the people whom they did dirty "Hey, y'know, that thing? My bad." and just get on to the serious business of Happily EverHereAfter? I think so. I could hang.

Quote for the Day:

"When you look back on your life, it looks as though it were a plot, but when you are into it, it's a mess: just one surprise after another. Then, later, you see it was perfect."

-Schopenhauer

* It's a real word. I looked it up.

** Okay, I'm not really sure that's a real word, but I wanted to be inclusive.

Coffee Is My Aeroplane

2007-09-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

This is the longest interval in which I've not posted (if one doesn't count the year between the first post on MySpazz and the second). This is an unfortunate trend. I can promise to do better, but really, is that being realistic given my track record here?

Three weeks ago (see, right here is an argument for posting more often!), while I was riding home on the Springwater trail, I was stung (or bitten; Satan insists upon redundancy management and so equipped his special spawn to do both) by a yellowjacket. I detected a blur of movement on my right and then felt the impact of a small, vicious organism on my left shin about a hand-span above the sock-line. Within a second I further detected the signature match-burn that, under ordinary circumstances, would have me gyrating through the motions of what I like to call the Tourette's Dance. (It's an ugly dance. Think Danny DeVito on stilts, on "Soul Train").

Thing is, it wasn't ordinary circumstances. I was on a bicycle and so couldn't give in to the urge to scream and flail. Instead, I kept pedaling as smoothly as I could manage and kept my eyes forward because I knew that if I looked down and actually saw the little winged hellion gnawing on my flesh I'd freak and bale off the bike and add contusions to venomous insult. All the while, the thing kept munching away like it's a pasty white boy buffet (or thrusting like it's coupon day at Madam Shagnasty's.) and it is somewhat worse than "not fun".

Oddly enough, although it hurts like Hell and it's all I can do to stay on and move forward, there was just the slightest twinge of pride in the back of my mind; I was maintaining, not giving in to howling and thrashing and panic. Ask my wife how I react when one of these evil bastards manages to get into our apartment and you'll understand from whence that seemingly out-sized pride comes. In short, yellowjackets fill me with dread. It's like any other phobia (non-sensical and useless), but my immediate response to their presence is to flee. I believe it stems from a childhood incident in Puerto Rico, when I was stung about ten times in one go by paper wasps who took exception to a kick ball lodged in the hedge too close to their nest. I was nine, and I remember being very proud of myself for not crying. My mother made me sit with my hand and my foot each in a bowl of ice cubes and water; after about ten minutes of that I was thinking that maybe I'd rather just go back to the hedge and taunt the wasps into finishing me off.

Anyway. My shin still bears the scars of the encounter on the trail. The little punk must have been in a really bad mood.

***********************************

Recently I was asked by two women I know to defend my sense of aesthetic. In other words, they wanted to know what I find so appealing about another female acquaintance.

It was really annoying. Once again I was called upon to prove that I am not, after all, a hog of a male human being. I briefly (very briefly) considered saying something like "Well, you know what I like in a woman? My dick!" just to see them spit up their wine, but I didn't. Again, I tried to explain that my sense of beauty is holistic, that I try not to see women in terms of generalization, that yes, there are certain fashions of dress that I find sexier than others* but that it's the person wearing them that ultimately matters, natter-natter-natter-blah-blah-yada-yada, to the point that even I was bored. So maybe I can put it better here, and from now on I'll just refer people to this entry when once again this stupid conversation presents itself.

I love to look at women. It does not mean I want to fuck them. It means they are very pleasant to look at. This may surprise you, but in terms of physical beauty there are men I find pleasant to look at (although this is most often in the "I could be that, if I ran ten miles before my regular three hours at the gym every day!" sense). My criteria for appraisal is individualistic. Cup size does not matter. A shaven vulva is not mandatory. If your idea of my personal aesthetic is that I like big boobs or long legs or luxurious hair, and that I exclude personality and heart, then you are (a) wrong, (b) insulting me, and (c) being very unkind to the women I find attractive who just so happen to possess one or all of these traits. It's also somewhat telling of your own sense of self-worth. Please don't be that woman, because, you know, that's unattractive. I will never apologize for being male, whatever hormonal or historical baggage you perceive saddles that denial. Thank you. Can we just move on now?

That felt good.

Today's quote: "It's no use growing older if you only learn new ways of misbehaving yourself." - Hector Hugh Munro

*I'll just say that spring and summer on SE Hawthorne Blvd is a treat for the eyes.

Post-Operative

2007-08-26T07:29:00.000-07:00

I'm staring a four-day work week and a four-day weekend in the face. Cowabunga!

I haven't had a long weekend just to have one in a long time; all of my weekdays away have been related to medical matters, which tend not to be relaxing at all. Waiting rooms are really the antitheses of relaxation. Who can revel in leisure with months-old magazines while sharing a room with people who are obviously much sicker than you? I'll be waiting on the missus, who is either having a relatively minor procedure done or is consulting with her physician du jour, as I sit surrounded by elderly people who are there in a desperate bid to NOT DIE. Add to that the fact that waiting rooms make me sleepy, so along with the tattered magazines and the sick people I also get tearing eyes and a screaming yawn beating against the back of my clenched teeth. I know this smacks of Allen-esque angst, but I hate to yawn in hospital waiting rooms as if I'm bored with everyone else's struggles to stay upright and breathing. "Oh, are we boring you? Get a load of this tumor!"

So this coming (four-day!) weekend, I intend to do a long, unhurried bike ride to Gresham and back. [Edit: Perhaps I'll carry a length of lead pipe with me, whaddaya think?] I haven't ridden that side of the Springwater in ages; actually haven't ridden those many miles in one trip in four years, in fact. This morning's newspaper (The Sunday Oregonian) included a community guide titled "Destination GRESHAM", which I suspect is an error on the part of the distributor; a couple weeks ago we received the morning paper two hours late and delivered by a sweating, panting man, and two days later we were delivered the previous day's issue. These people have issues with time and date, so it's not outside the bounds of possibility that they may also have a tenuous grasp on place as well. Anyway. This newspaper suppliment is what gave me the idea to ride to Gresham.

I'll ride it, that is, unless my bicycle flies apart. An ominous ticking noise is emanating from my drivetrain and it's driving me mad. Every revolution of the pedals, tick. tick. tick. I suspect it's a bottom bracket problem, but when I took the bike in to be serviced, the mechanic's conclusion was that I'd (once again, just like last year around this time!) worn out my rear cassette and chain and needed them replaced. Well. Son of a bitch. Okay, let's just do that again, shall we? I also needed to replace my rear tire due to broken glass and debris provided by winos waiting for buses along my route to work. So. One tire, one cassette, one chain. Nearly $150.00 American. Nifty, y'know, because I just have it lying around.

Picked my bike up from the shop, rode it to work the next day. Tick. Tick. Tick. You might say I was ever so gently perturbed.

I don't necessarily blame the shop guys because they see the same stuff day in and day out and this was likely the most common solution in their experience. A spanking work-load (the lads behind the counter were all bustling about looking harried the day I picked up the bike) leads to on-the-dash diagnoses, and sometimes they're just wrong (I suspect that physicians work the same way, which is why after major surgery and several consultations and tests over a two-year period my wife still has the same pain in the same places; The docs don't get a simple "tsk tsk" and a pass though. People aren't bicycles). I'm not outraged and am not going to go scream at them for it. I trust them when they say I need things replaced because they have always been great. Often they have pointed out less-expensive alternatives to me, which says a lot about their ethic (this is Bike Gallery on N.E. Sandy in the Hollywood District I'm talking about, by the way). I will be going back for a re-evaluation if I didn't manage to rectify the issue myself yesterday, testing and tightening every bolt on the thing. That's pretty much the limit of my abilities and available tools. I can't touch the bottom bracket itself because it takes a special (expensive) wrench, and in my hands that probably wouldn't do me any good anyway, the dexterity to butter a slice of bread being the limit of my legerdemain.

Today I will do a few household chores and then I'm burying my nose in my current book, pausing only to snuffle treats and quaff whiskey. That's what Sundays are for.

Quote of the day: "It is easy to hate and it is difficult to love. This is how the whole scheme of things works. All good things are difficult to achieve; and bad things are very easy to get." - Morarji Desai, Indian Statesman and Prime Minister

Post Titles Are For The Weak!

2007-08-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was quite nice. Got to sit outside with a couple of friends, drink canned American beer (yes, every once in a great while I enjoy a beer that doesn't require flossing afterward; sue me), talk non-stop for a couple of hours about nothing particular, and avoid doing the thing for which we were out in the parking lot in the first place, i.e. replace the brake pads on my bike. It did finally get done (in my living-room, because by the time we gathered sufficient wits to begin work it was time to eat and there was no way I was leaving my bike and tools in the parking lot unattended). Again, my hammy hands insisted upon hindering rather than expediting the work and I suspect the greatest advantage of having them is that they keep my wrists from fraying at the edges.

This week I intend to start the walk-run program in earnest. I've gone to the track at a school near home a few times in the last two weeks, but due to last-minute schedule conflicts it's been pretty scattershot. Time to get serious. I've run just enough to understand that it'll be a long time before I can run three miles (my goal) without walking a portion of it. Right now I've adopted an interval system wherein I walk fifty paces and "run" (more like a lurching trot accompanied by the gasping of my own personal exercise mantra
"Holy fuckin' God this sucks and one and two and one step more you shuffling corpse and three and four...". (You think I over-dramatize? There are people buying starter homes now that had yet to be born the last time I ran on a track.) As I progress, the walking strides will become fewer.

In a way I dread this labor-intensive process and in another way it's cool to be out there battling age and inertia. My remains might actually be suitable for viewing once I finally fall off the mortal coil.

For the next three weeks Isabella and her mum Lisa will be in England visiting family. Upon the eve of their leave-taking, we declared our abject misery at their departure for so long; Lisa replied in kind, and Isabella said she'd miss her cat. None of this "Oh mummy! Whatevah shall we dooo? We ah leaving our deah friends evah so long and I shall be evah so sad until we may once again traverse the seas to return to them!" Nuh-uh. Isabella ain't down with the sentimentality at all. This little chick is going to be either a corporate attorney or a pro wrestler when she grows up. I hear that her nan isn't nearly so willing as we are to step and fetch for her, so perhaps we'll see evidence of gratitude when she comes home. Yeah, like Scarlett returning to Tara.

The missus and I have decided England will be our next Grand Vacation Trip*, should we find a spare five thou or so in the sofa cushions (I just looked up travel time via air from PDX to Heathrow; thirteen hours or more! My spine would forcibly eject from my torso after five hours and go scrabbling down the aisle in search of a parachute. Perhaps we'll go via ocean-liner). The wife would have to bring her own food because she doesn't think she'd care for the local fare. Me, I'd be all over it. It would kill me dead inside of two weeks, but I'm game. First thing off the plane, I'm going for a chip butty. (You ought to see the face Isabella pulls when this item is described to her. She'd sooner eat from the cat's bowl. Her mum is English, but this girl's palate is All-American.)

The mate, she stirs. Breakfast is in the offing. Adieu!

-Rob

* Our last "Grand Vacation Trip" was to a little desert town called Mitchell in central Oregon. Laugh if you like, but it was a great trip and we didn't have to sell anything or take out a loan to go. Oregon rawks.

Sweet Suffering

2007-07-22T14:57:00.000-07:00

The Tour de France is going skyward this week, into the Pyrenees. The mountain stages are my favorites in the big stage (multi-day) races because I get it all right there: beautiful scenery, graceful forms, the lovely minimalist structure of the perfect machine known as the bicycle...and the brute-force misery of human beings slogging defiantly up switchbacks, some with gritted teeth and steely determination, many with salt rings around their mouths from dehydration, probably more than one or two who would like nothing more than to pull over to the side, vomit down the side of the mountain, and stuff their distended, tortured lungs back down their throats where they belong. What's not to love?

I ride a bicycle nearly every working day. It's roughly five or six miles (depending on the route I travel) from my apartment to my place of disjoyment, and when I opt to use the MUP (Multi-Use Path; in this case the Springwater trail) I try to open it up and go as fast as I can safely manage. This translates as "not that fast" really, because I ride a bike outfitted for cummuting (aka heavy as all Hell) and I myself am outfitted in a physique better made for power-lifting (if I weren't so goddamned lazy) or blog-writing (bingo!). Still, I pass about as many people as pass me so I should be content with that because I'm a straight "B" personality. Let the world go by at it's own pace, y'know?

Well, y'know? No. Because although when I was a kid I could'nt care less about sports - hated any and all in fact, and it wasn't the sports themselves I detested but the mindset of the ignoramuses that played them - I have now found in my middle age, when it certainly feels too late and stupid to care, that I get really aggressive when on my bike. The Lycra-clad insects on their twenty-pound Litespeeds pass me arrogantly and without a word, and all I want to do is pedal like a fooken windmill, catch up to them, and try to fit my right elbow in their left ears (always pass on the left; simple courtesy). I'm outraged by their rudeness and want to shove my frame pump through their spokes. Why?

Well, I know why of course. I hate discourtesy and always have. Discourtesy makes me want to snap bones and suck marrow. I admit it freely. But that's not really it. It's competitive desire that feels like violence. If an emotion can camoflage itself as another, then this is proof of it. This is what bothers me. Nearly a whole life-time of sedentary living and bad habits has left me with the idea that it's best not to strive, and here I am at forty-eight years old getting angry about not being able (or more to the point, having to work so hard to be able) to keep pace with a twenty-something on a bike that weighs about the same as my shoes. It feels pretty pathetic. And yet. And yet...

It feels good to be competitive, to feel rage at others for their (perceived) arrogance and impatience with my own weakness, and feel the frustration mash the pedals down and around. It feels like a truth, the ache in my legs and the breath sawing in and out of my chest. It hurts and it feels more than a little futile, but as long as Mr. Carrot prances on his pedals in front of me, I keep on trying to latch onto his wheel just for the satisfaction of seeing him glance back and find me there. I've seen the double-take on more than a couple of occasions, and friends, it felt like those first twinges of an incipient erection. It's grand. Usually fleeting (it has taken me the entire length of the trail to catch up sometimes), but grand nonetheless.

These are the days when I walk through the door smiling, when I'm most effusive in the greeting of work-mates. If the fates don't conspire to immediately extinguish my chipper mood ("Dude...have you seen this?"), I can ride the glow all the way to lunch.

If I'm "lucky", the ride home will be a chase as well.

dr3amz r suxX0r kthxbye

2007-07-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

I had another smoking dream Friday night, in which I succumbed to temptation, smoked a cigarette, and then felt overwhelming remorse and a heavy feeling of hopelessness. I'm staring my one-year no-smoking anniversary in the face here, so when does this shit stop?

Speaking of anniversaries, the missus and I celebrated our 16th year of matrimony this weekend by successfully staying the Hell away from other people. This is no mean feat, as practically everyone we know outside of work lives here in the same complex with us. What did we do? Well, since we've been married 16 years, obviously sex wasn't involved. Instead, we read books and watched home-improvement programming.

Yes, home-improvement programming. They're addictive, these shows. I find it really funny that, what with the industry in which I work and the number of DIY shows we watch at home, I still can't hammer a nail unless we're talking about the one growing from my thumb. Or yours, maybe. I'm that bad. Any home-improvement projects more complicated than vacuuming the floor are bound to go badly and end with much strife and muttered obscenities in the Garrison household. Usually the missus is content to leave me out of them now, but every now and then she forgets the near-miss with marriage counceling we courted the last time she sought to include me in some doomed decorating foray, and I have to prove to her yet again why it's best for all that I just trundle off for a nap and stay out of her way.

Anyway. One thing that the missus did that I did not was watch Pan's Labyrinth. I wasn't in the mood for a movie so I read in the bedroom and then dozed off. It's just as well, because she reported afterward that it was one of the most depressing films she'd seen yet. Terrific. I don't do depressing movies. I've had them sneak up on me ("Im so happy I got to see that, because they did such a wonderful job in the previews of not letting on that I'll want to razor my wrists open in the nearest bathtub! Thumbs up!".), but you will never see me skip to the googleplex with the intent to watch a movie the sole purpose of which is to make me feel like crap for being alive and well. Schindler's List is a terrific film, I have no doubt. I will never willingly see it. Same goes for A Mighty Heart. Call me shallow, but I want to be entertained by a movie, not have my conscience raised. It's pretty high up there already, thanks. It's just a bitch because I was looking forward to Pan's Labyrinth. Crud.

The missus awaits in the livingroom, with brownies! :oD

See ya,

-Rob

Title Goes Here

2007-06-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday the missus and I, along with Isabella and her mum Lisa went to Cannon Beach to see the sand castle contest.

Of course it was raining, because we decided to attend. We are unwilling rain gods and we are powerful.

For those who have never attended this annual event, you can view some great examples here. This year's competition was somewhat lackluster; not a great deal of participation in the contest, although attendance seemed substantial. It mattered not, as the contest was really just an excuse for us to go to the coast for the first time in two years.

There are few things I enjoy more than walking the surf, and I get much the same sense of immensity gazing at the sea as I do looking at the stars (when I can see them, anyway). I feel I could walk for miles and miles alongside the ocean. It feels like a blessing. Do you know the feeling when you come to a realization that this moment, right now, is perfect, that every sense is attuned to that perfection and you wish that you could keep that moment as more than just memory, to bask in it at any time you wanted? It's like that with me. I call them Gaia interludes, and they come while revisiting landscapes I haven't seen in some time but just as often they come spontaneously in new places.

Anyway. Isabella and I had a great time running in the surf and dodging the waves. My shins and calves are feeling the effort now (further hints that my legs need more work than just pedaling a bike), and my shoes are still out on the porch encrusted with sand and sodden, but it was a grand time. We gave it four thumbs up! The missus made a few dashes herself (I keep having to warn her that she's going to bust a hinge and be in real trouble but it falls upon deaf ears), but Isabella's mum Lisa chose instead to wield her fancy four-pound digital camera from a safe distance.

Lisa doesn't care for the outdoors and would prefer an air-conditioned bubble (with room service) at all times. Her presence was only a concession to Isabella, I suspect. I won't bust her chops too much, as she was a good sport about not taking face-forward photos of me (my request; I detest having my picture taken). Besides, she had to put up with a longish drive with my wife and Isabella in the back seat. Gawd. You would think they were the same age, and I mean six years old and not, uh, the other. They did everything but kick the backs of the front seats. At about the 25-mile mark Lisa started to get those hard lines around the mouth. At around fifty miles I swear I heard muttering. She did at one point clearly state that this was why Isabella was an only child. I myself was feeling remorse at the tortures my brother and I inflicted upon our parents during road trips.

Me: "He's poking me!"
Brother Bill: "I'm not either! Get your fat leg off my side!"
Dad: "Okay, stop touching each other. Jesus Kee-rist!"
Me: "Now he's looking at me!"
Dad: "Alright, stop looking at each other. Actually, one of you just get out of the car. Draw straws. Jesus Kay-Kee-rist!"

After a couple of hours we piled back in the car and drove homeward. That's when the torpor set in. Exercise followed by enforced inactivity in a moving vehicle and too many store-bought chocolate-chip cookies (road trips are not fueled by health food, c'mon!) is guaranteed to put me in an eyelid-sagging fugue state. Plus, my tail-bone starts pining for the womb and begins to fold over on itself. Extricating myself from the car after finally arriving home is an excruciating process and I'm thankful we went in Lisa's Outback rather than our Yaris, else I'd have needed the jaws of life to get out.

Isabella spent the night with us, and she and the missus are now up and awake and demanding, so I must close for now. I'll try to update in a more timely fashion from now on, but really, I just can't be trusted.

Now reading: D-Day June 6, 1944 by Stephen E. Ambrose. Riveting.

Guh-bye,

-Rob

A Nice Sleep In

2007-05-28T08:03:00.000-07:00

Actually I don't know why I used that outright lie as a title, since attempts to sleep late(r) for me means trying to ignore a bladder the size of a cantaloupe. I miss the days when I'd allow myself the luxury of visiting the bathroom and then going back to bed, but that sort of sloth I can no longer afford. These days I'm Action Man when the clock reads 4:30 a.m. (Monday to Friday; on Saturdays and Sundays I'm Delayed Reaction Man).

My new schedule works very well. Up at 4:30 a.m., feed cats, dole out medications, make coffee, visit the gym, go home, greet somnambulant wife who has managed to find the living room sofa without first wandering into a closet along the way, or plummeting off the balcony to the bluff below while the squirrels she insists upon feeding in the morning look on in horror (anguished squirrel voice: "Oh the humanity!"), pop a couple of 'Tarts in the toaster for her, make oatmeal for me, catch the television news and perhaps an hour of shows we've recorded via DVR, don bike kit, roll out. That's a successful morning. I'm damned chipper by the time I get to work (to my co-workers: Shut Up).

Unfortunately my left shoulder isn't down with all this healthful activity, and in fact I suspect it plans to murder me in my sleep. If it falls into collusion with my bladder, I am indeed a dead (and wet) man walking. I have either abused the bursa in the shoulder, or I've cultivated a stern case of arthritis there. The missus is after me to make an appointment with our doctor for a cortizone shot, forgetting that the men of my clan will always consider mailing the offending organ or body part to the clinic via parcel post before we would contemplate going ourselves. Meanwhile I'm trying to be kinder to my ailing joint, but those bench presses won't lift themselves and I have this weird sense of accomplishment when I complete a set while working through the, uh, discomfort.

Within a couple of weeks I plan to begin running as well. I state "within a couple of weeks" as a way of saying "I should start running too, because running will be good for me, but you're out of your fookin' mind if you think I'm going to commit to a real schedule for it because I hate running!". And I do. Hate running. This is the way I look at it. Running is an emergency thing, and it's relation to health is short term. By this I mean that one should run only under two extreme circumstances, those being (A), the need to eat a thing that is running away from you, and (B), the need to run from an eating thing running in your direction. This was the mandate of our distant ancestors. I submit as unsubstantiated fact that my greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreatgreat-grandfather Zumgrukgruk did not jog. Those TV cave guys might do it, but none in my family line did, I'm certain.

I think the maximum distance I've ever willingly ran was about one mile. Sure it felt good when I finished. "Don't you feel great now?" Well yes, fool, because I'm not running now! Fitness freaks. Jesus.

I just got up to get more coffee. My consumption of coffee has gone through the roof since I quit smoking. I used to (and still do, apparently) equate the two and so thought that my love for coffee would wane. Quite the contrary. The same is true for alcohol, and that is fraught with peril. Among my clan's considerable natural gifts is the ability to fall into addiction like leaves from a tree; if not vigilant, I tend to drink a lot. My drink of choice is whiskey, but this last weekend I re-introduced myself to the joys of Crystal Light lemonade liberally spiked with gin. I love gin, but whereas whiskey is like that friend you have that is always good company even though sometimes he innocently leads you into trouble, gin has a smile full of fangs and with a dagger hidden behind it's back. With whiskey, even when on rare occasions I've over-indulged the night before, I wake with a gentle muzziness that is almost pleasant. After a gin-fueled evening, I usually feel like I've tried to stomp on my own head. Anyway. I should watch the drinking.

My missus has successfully navigated the hallway and has found the diningroom table. I should offer her breakfast. Sayonara.

-Rob

Mirror, Mirror

2007-05-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

I'm gonna need a 12-step program soon. I have now begun posting this blog on four separate hosting sites.

My intentions were good. I wanted to post it somewhere for those (few) readers who are MySpace-allergic. So I wandered over to WordPress and had a look-see. Nothing fancy, no hoops through which to jump, no "Bambi" or "Sexxxi" trollops to circumnavigate. Okay, I'll build here. I'll be extremely lazy about it and simply cut-and-paste from this blog, no muss no fuss, done-ski.

Well no, because a few weeks later I'm reading some posts over at ForumGarden and notice that the site provides blog hosting as well. Nice bunch of folks at FG, why not paste the blog here too? Cickety-click. Done. I actually even have a comment over there already. From a total stranger, yet.

Last week I was reading another blog and discovered that, if I already have a GMail account I too can have a blog on Blogger! I do have a GMail account, and I can't tell you why I because I never use it. I just needed to fill in fields and select this and click that, just to see the final result, I suppose. It's a bit like pulling the handle on the slot machine. This post doth illustrate what happens when I get bored and sit down to the keyboard, dothent it? You should see my Favorites menu. I should post it. Nah, I really should not post it. Anyway. Now I have a blog on Blogger as well, but I am not going to post one on Diaryland. I. Am. NOT.

Now that I've confessed this, I expect that one site or another will depth-charge the blog due to some TOS thingy I didn't (and never) bother to read. That would be okay, of course, unless they form some kind of Blog Bloc and thus cast me from the Interweb entirely. (I just had a shudder. No Interweb?? That actually fills me with a sense of dread. This is sad. I've become my own version of the disaffected slack-tard son I never had.)

Let's move on. So far this weekend I've done nothing really constructive at all except to spritz a little lube on the bike and tighten a spoke here and there. That took all of thirty minutes. The rest of the time has been spent reading or watching television, or trying to wade through Halo (see slack-tard comment above). That game is a bastard, by the way; game developers are sadists.

One highlight, of course, was having Isabella and her mum to dinner. Isabella brought along this bubble wand thing that, when deployed, looks like some kind of Klingon weapon if Klingon weapons were plastic and colored purple and yellow. The thing is? This gadget makes wicked awesome bubbles! I kid you not, I made a Rob-sized bubble with that thing and it lasted something like 15 seconds. Rob: "Dude! Look at that!" Isabella: "Can I have it back now please?".

I'm looking forward to getting back on the bike and getting back to the gym. My new schedule rocks, or will rock now that I've kicked whatever rampant protozoa was leading my damned life last week. Where is that gods-forsaken new-and-improved immune system we ex-smokers allegedly enjoy? Bah!

What I'm reading: Starship Troopers, by Robert A. Heinlein (Only the second time I've read it; the first was when I was 14. I remember my young sensibilities being appalled by the seemingly harsh society in which the story is set. What a difference 34 years makes! Chapter VIII discusses "civic virtue"; touchy-feely folk should probably pass it by.)

Last Film Seen: Notes on a Scandal (Judy Dench and Cate Blanchett in a tawdry love/hate smack-down. Loved it.)

I love you (well, I mean I love that you know me),

-Rob

Shake It Up

2007-04-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

A thing I don't like about myself: I'm a creature of habit. When it comes to the mechanics of day-to-day living, I'm a robot; I do the same routine every day, and when knocked out of my schedule I thrash about in a rage. Although most of these habits are benign, I don't think I care much about what they say about me. To me, the process has begun to have about it the aroma of fear. I hate that. It feels like a narrow jungle path, and to stray from that path into the dark and dense wild is to risk being eaten by...well, jungle things. Christ, now I've stumbled into a thicket of similies. Hand me my metaphor machete, if you please.

Fear is a good thing, if it's plugged in and modulated by common sense. That model tells you that it's really a bad idea to eat just any old mushroom you find growing alongside the trail, or to ride a shopping cart off of a cliff just because your friend with the video camera tells you it'll be a hit on YouTube. I'm not afraid of that fear. Well, I am, because that's the whole idea, but I mean I understand and accept that sort of fear. The sort that sticks in my craw is the one that convinces me that I shouldn't do something different (or differently) because it might cause inconvenience, or because "Jaysus, if you do that, who can say what will happen?!". Good fear helps keep you alive. Bad fear kills you long before you remember to stop breathing.

I've gone off the path before, and in most cases it's been a good decision. The missus and I moved half-way across these United States for no other reason than to see a new place, to live elsewhere; no jobs, an apartment rented sight-unseen (okay, that was a mistake, but we survived it), all of our possessions piled into an open 8-by-10 U-Haul trailer topped with orange tarps flapping in the slipstream as we rolled along. Scary. Exhilarating.* Then there's the bike. Before I bought a decent bicycle and started commuting, I thought the people who rode in traffic were screwballs with a death wish** and I couldn't imagine doing it. Then my wife (!) suggested we try it and I haven't looked back. Because of these and other examples I know empirically that change can be rewarding if you can see past the apprehension. This is why I'm a bit ticked off with myself lately. I think I'm too comfortable.

In an effort to dig myself out of the rut I've been in the last few years, I'm changing my daily schedule. No more going to work an hour early just to drink coffee and do the New York Times crossword. I'll be at the gym by 5:45 ayem punishing my still-groggy, cold, shrieking muscles. Then home, breakfast with the missus, shower, and on the bike. I've already started this routine, and I quite like having started the day with a success. My muscles have dissenting opinions, but they'll come around. Also, I need to start doing more recreational cycling because, while commuting is far from joyless, my riding has become too utilitarian and I need to re-introduce myself to the fun of simple neighborhood rolls with no destination necessary. And walking. I love to walk and hike, and I can't remember the last time I walked for the simple pleasure of it.

Hell, I'm even kicking around the idea of doing theater again. My last audition was years ago; I'd been away from it for a couple of years before that, I was nervous and ill-prepared, and since it was an audition not just for a role but for a collection of area directors and assorted big-wigs, I thought it more important than was good for me and thus increased the pressure on myself out of all sense of proportion. It was awful, and I think I might have actually flung beads of flop-sweat out into the audience. I was a shuddering mess when I left, and I thought my stage days were over. But now I wonder...

What I'm reading: Pegasus Bridge, Stephen E. Ambrose (Excellent and engrossing!)

Last film seen: The Good Shepherd (A well-crafted thriller I'll never watch again...yeah, it's one of those.)

G'on, git!

-Rob

* True story: When I stepped out of the car onto the curb in front of Morrison Place Apartments at SW 19th and Morrison, I looked up and saw that big blue Volvo sign and thought for a few seconds that it was projecting from the West Hills, like the Hollywood sign, so askew was my perspective. I wasn't used to seeing hills and mountains in the way of the horizon. (Okay, so fine, I sound like Jethro Clampett in the big city. Taste of my expansive caucasian buttocks, if you please.)

** This observation I still hold as mostly true.