Moments of perfection
There are certain times when, for reasons which remain incomprehensible to mere mortals, the stars align, and moments of sublime idealism are achieved. I had such a moment (which actually lasted for around 5-10 minutes) the other morning. I had just finished my morning swim and was on my way to work. As I approached Ina, the light turned green just at the moment I was getting ready to slow down, so I was able to swing onto Ina with nary a hitch in my giddyap (which is pretty unusual, because I almost always have to wait at that light). Just as I was doing so, "Stairway to Heaven" came on the radio, and so I turned up the radio while cruising on down the road. For whatever reason, traffic was light - almost non-existent as I continued on, and the lights on Mona Lisa, La Cholla, and La Cañada all burned with a steady green glow as I held the speed steady and sang these immortal words along with Robert Plant: "If she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed, with her words she can get what she came for." Now occasionally, I'll hit one or two green lights in a row on this stretch, but four is pushing it, so I fully expected to hit the next light when it was red. Expectations gave way to bliss, though, as I continued through the lights at Paseo del Norte ("In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees, and the voices of those who stand looking") and turned onto Oracle without the slightest pause (other than to make the turn), then made my way towards Orange Grove. "Surely I'll hit a red light there - or at least have to wait for a gap in traffic to make a left turn," I thought, but once again, the Gods smiled down upon me ("Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know. The piper's calling you to join him") and I was able to turn onto Orange Grove without a problem. By this time, the song was reaching its climactic moment ("And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul, there walks a lady we all know, who shines white light and wants to show…") and with one light to go, I wondered if this was going to be the day, and just as I was getting ready to ease on the brakes and slow down for the red light burning ahead of me on First Avenue, it switched to green, I cruised on through, and made my way along Orange Grove to where I had to turn into school, just as the song reached its ending - "And she's bu-uying a sta-airway… to heav-e-en." What a great way to start the day.
Sacrificial Socks
The other day, I was bopping through my postings looking for comments (there actually were a couple) when I ran across one from several weeks ago - when I told the story of my missing socks. Apparently, somebody who works for a gift company was bopping through the website reading peoples' blogs in an attempt to find what they considered to be witty stories about products that the company sells, and when they ran across this entry, they thought it was mildly amusing, and so they asked if I would contact them about receiving a complimentary pair of what they call "Sacrificial Socks" in return for me writing about the "Sacrificial Socks" in a mildly amusing manner. Of course I e-mailed them a message immediately, but I haven't heard back from them since then, so I'm wondering if it got lost in the shuffle and what I should do about it. Because I really, really want a pair of "Sacrificial Socks" even though I have no idea what they are. Also it's pretty much guaranteed to give me something to fill this space with - kind of like what I'm doing right now, even though I haven't actually received anything yet. So we'll just have to wait and see how this all goes down.
An orange by any other name…
I bought a bag of those little oranges called Clementines the other day because they were on sale. So when I got home, Carrie grabbed one out of the bag, but she couldn't peel it because she'd bitten all her fingernails off, so she asked me if I would peel it for her. Of course, I refused. After all, what kind of father would I be if I peeled my child's orange for her. I figured it was one of those "life-lesson" moments where you teach your child to be self-sufficient. I mean, what's going to happen when she's out in the "real world" living on her own and she has to peel an orange and there's nobody around to help her? Anyway, she didn't particularly appreciate the "life lesson" and would have much preferred if I'd just gone ahead and peeled the orange, so I suggested that she post what happened on her Facebook page and see what kind of response she got from her friends. Sure enough, within sixty minutes, she had four responses, all of them highly supportive of her, and highly critical of her "mean Dad, who wouldn't even peel her orange for her." And then there was one girl who really went over the top and said highly critical (and profane) things about me. All because of an orange. It's a mildly amusing world.
700 Club Update
I have no idea what I did to make this happen (or if it was even something I did) but "The 700 Club" is no longer being recorded by my DVR. Hallelujah!
With that, we'll wrap things up until next time, hoping that the wind remains at your back, your nose remains clean, and your sunrises continue to occur with every breaking day.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Runnin', Recordin', and Religion
Runnin' with the Dorado-ettes
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
As part of my weekly regimen, I embark upon a "speedwork" run each Wednesday, in which I strive to run fast for various periods of time in an effort to learn how to run fast all the time. So I was out on my "speedwork" run last Wednesday, doing some 1/2 mile repeats (with 1/4 mile recoveries) along the path running by the CDO wash near my house. As I approached the Oro Valley Country Club, I noticed three runners about 1/4 of a mile ahead of me. I recognized them as members of the CDO girls cross country team (I realize this might sound a little creepy, but I see the team running all the time because we run in the same area at the same time, so our paths often overlap/cross - plus, I saw their coach on his bicycle, so I knew who they were). Anyhow, I was in the middle of one of my 1/2 mile speed portions, so I assumed that I'd start gaining on the girls as we ran. However, that wasn't the case. Actually, we stayed almost the exact same distance apart. It didn't matter if I was doing the 1/4 mile "recovery" or the 1/2 mile "speed" portion, I remained almost the exact same distance from them as when I first saw them, and this continued all along the wash path, then stayed the same as I followed the girls (really, I'm not a stalker, I swear) up around a neighborhood, through the park, and over to the high school (this was at least 4-5 miles total distance). As they headed into the football field area, and I continued on home, I wasn't sure exactly how to feel about this. Should I be encouraged because I was able to maintain the same pace as a group of high school young-uns in the prime of their lives, or should I be discouraged because I wasn't able to catch up with a bunch of girls (yes, I know how sexist that sounds - sorry)? Or, should I feel kind of creepy for following a trio of young girls for several miles? On a related note, if you ever get a chance, ask my darling wife, Katie, about how she interprets "repeats" as related to speedwork. There's a story there, but I'm afraid of the repercussions along the home front if I spill the beans, so mum's the word for now.
A rose by any other name
The other day, two 7th grade boys in my class were having a discussion related to names. As in, they were talking about how teachers seemed to follow a pattern with their names. According to their theory, teachers either had really long and complicated names, or really simple names. When they told me this, I kind of looked at them funny and said something along the lines of, "I don't think that's true." They went on to share several examples that matched their theory, and I named several that didn't, and I explained that it really wasn't a prerequisite for someone who wanted to go into the teaching field to have a certain kind of name, and they started to talk about names in general and how it would be really cool if people were matched with their job by their last name, and they gave several examples, and then one of them said, "I wonder what job someone named Hooker would have?" and I just stood there, doing my very best to maintain a neutral expression while waiting for him, or his friend, or anyone in the class who overheard him (at least 10-15 kids heard what he said) to make what, to me, was the obvious connection between a person named "Hooker" and a job, but to my great surprise, no one said anything. I kept waiting, and kept waiting, but still no connection. Finally, the kid who had asked the question said, "I know what they would be," and I just knew what he was going to say, and started to think about how I should reply when he said it, but instead of saying what I thought he would say (which unless you're a seventh grader, should be obvious) he said, "A person named Hooker would be a fisherman." Indeed.
Can I hear an Amen?
What is it that you're not supposed to mention in polite company? I believe it's religion and politics, so because this section involves religion, you may want to skip to the ending - if not, consider yourself forewarned. The mildly amusing thing is, by putting this disclaimer/warning at the beginning of this section, I'm guessing what I've actually done is make you want to read this section even more than you did before. That, my friends, is called, "Making you want to read this section even more by adding a warning/disclaimer about it at the beginning, which intrigues you and makes you want to find out why I felt the need to include the warning/disclaimer," otherwise known as M.Y.W.T.R.T.S.E.M.B.A.W/D.A.I.A.T.B.W.I.Y.A.MA.Y.W.T.F.O.W.I.F.T.N.T.I.T.W/D. With that out of the way, let us continue. The world has changed in many ways since I was a lad who was knee-high to a grasshopper, including many technological changes. Some of these advances have thrilled me, some have made me shrug indifferently, and some, quite frankly, have disturbed me (I'm still not sold on the whole "cell-phone" thing). Anyhow, one of the greatest inventions, in my humble opinion, is the digital recorder. The VCR was pretty good, but it was still a pain to mess with the tapes and all that jazz, so now all you have to do to record a show is press a button and SHAZAM! it's recorded. Then you can watch it whenever you want, skip through the commercials, delete it when you're through, and move on with your life. What could be better than that? Well, the system works perfectly until (as is often the case with systems that work perfectly) something goes wrong. Like your 15-year-old daughter sits on the remote, which your 11-year-old son left on the couch instead of putting it on the table where it belongs, and when she sits on the remote, she somehow hits a combination of buttons that tells the machine to record every single episode of "The 700 Club" from now until eternity (however long that may be). Now you may be thinking, "Why don't you just fix the problem so it no longer records every single episode of 'The 700 Club?'" which, by the way, is on twice a day every day on ABC Family (just in case you're interested). The answer is that I've tried to fix the problem, but for whatever reason, no matter how many times I tell the machine not to record the show, it still records the show, and no matter how many times I delete the show, it keeps returning to my list of recorded shows. So, for now at least, I'm pretty much stuck, and it's now become a part of my daily ritual to delete episodes of "The 700 Club" which, I have to admit, I've started to actually enjoy, in a sick and twisted kind of way.
That's all I've got for now, which means it's time to tie a bow on this package and hit the "Publish Post" button, so until next time, may your mind (and your motives) remain pure and clear, may your vision remain unclouded, and may your carry-on luggage remain stored securely in the overhead bins.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Long Rides and Dead Batteries
Strange characters dressed in spandex
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
I've been building up my cycling mileage in anticipation of El Tour de Tucson (November 21), which means I've been spending a lot of hours pedaling up, down and around the mean streets of Tucson wearing spandex shorts, garishly colored shirts, and stiff-bottomed shoes that are impossible to walk in. I've fully appreciated the need for the specially designed bicycle shorts (and the incumbent padding) ever since I started riding semi-seriously 20+ years ago, but I've only started to wear the specially designed cycle jerseys in the past few years (and I have to say that I've come to appreciate those as well - love the pockets in the back where I can store my bagel and energy bars). Still, I always feel a little silly when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I set off on my excursions. And I still have an aversion to the "matching outfit" look that so many cyclists seem to embrace. Personally, I favor the plain black shorts look, and the last thing I want is have something like blue and yellow stripes on my shorts that match the jersey and socks. Anyway, I was on a ride a couple of weeks ago, and I'd pulled over at the park up in Catalina (north of Tucson), when this guy pulled in on a really, really beat up bike. It was a sort of mountain bike, but it looked like it had been made out of a bunch of spare parts and the seat was duct-taped together and he was hauling a sleeping bag and a bunch of other gear, so obviously he wasn't just out for a quick ride. Actually, the rider and the bike were kind of a matching pair, because he looked kind of beat-up and slapped together as well. He was lean and sun-baked with long, greasy hair and a tattoo of a naked lady on his forearm - obviously a high-class kind of guy. So he asked me where I was from, which isn't what you usually get asked by fellow cyclists as you're riding in and around Tucson (since most people riding in and around Tucson are from Tucson), and I said, "Tucson," and he kind of sniffed and said, "Is that all?" and I kind of shrugged and nodded, and he said, "Yeah, well I've come from Vancouver," and we got to talking (actually, he talked and I listened) and I found out that he'd been on the road for three months and was heading to Florida eventually, and he was with a female when he started but she couldn't handle it after five hundred miles and he was better off without her (he had a whole lot of other things to say about her, but I can't really include any of that because this is a family-oriented website) and was there a grocery store nearby, and the road from Phoenix to Catalina was horrible and caused him to split a tire, and was there a bike shop anywhere around where he could get a new tire, and so on. After about ten minutes of this, he headed on down the road and I stood and watched as he faded into the horizon. Kind of like those old westerns where the hero rides off into the sunset, except in the old westerns the hero is riding a horse instead of a beat up bicycle, and the hero is actually a hero, and the person watching is usually the woman he left behind or the kid he saved from a villain or the townspeople he freed from tyranny. But otherwise, it was exactly the same.
My so-called mechanical skills
For as long as I can remember (since long before I was knee-high to a grasshopper) I've had an uneasy relationship with automobiles. I don't particularly like to drive in the first place, I hate how much they cost to operate, maintain, insure, etc. in the second place, I detest the fact that they're (we're) destroying the environment while sucking up resources and indirectly leading countries into conflicts in the third place, and most of all, I hate when they don't work the way they're supposed to. So when Katie informed me that the battery on the Honda had died, I uttered a few choice words, then went to check it out. Sure enough, the battery was dead. So I sent Katie off to get a new one, and when she brought it home, I proceeded to hook it up. Once every cable was attached and every bolt was tightened, I put the key in the ignition, twisted, and… nothing. Hmm. I tried again. Still nothing. So I got out of the car and checked the battery cables to make sure they were put on correctly. Everything looked okay, but nothing worked. At that point, I was completely stumped, so we contacted the Honda place and they asked if I'd taken the plastic covers off the posts. Of course I took the covers off the posts, I'm not a complete idiot, and I have installed a battery before. So they asked if I checked the fuses, which I did, and they were fine, so they suggested we call a towing company to have it hauled in to the shop, which we did, and about an hour after it was taken away, I got a call from the Honda shop saying the car was fixed. "What was wrong with it?" I asked, and the guy said, "Uh, you left the plastic cover on one of the posts," which made me feel like a complete idiot because I remember taking one of the covers off, but obviously, I didn't take both of them off (which is a pretty important step to forget to do). So I guess I'm a complete loser when it comes to fixing cars.
On that note, we'll wrap up this little ditty and hope that your batteries stay charged, your spandex stays stretchy, and your oceans remain deep and uncluttered.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)