Lights - Camera - ACTION! - Part Two

As actors are wont to do, comes a point in every film where we report to wardrobe. Heeding the call that was on our voicemail, I hearkened to the designated location. Because my scene is a college graduation, I was to bring 3 changes of clothes that would be suitable for a family member/friend in the audience.

I brought 3 sportcoats, 1 pair of slacks (I had set out 2 others but forgot them), and four dress shirts. I purposely neglected to bring a tie because I assumed they would have sufficient stock to fit the genre and era of the scene, and luckily I was correct. I was attended to by 2 very nice ladies. They poked around with my clothes, held up certain items to me and had me try on my selection of sportcoats. One of the ladies said "I think this is a Polo shirt guy". Certainly a reflection of my upscale demeanor, I replied that was fine with me. She pulled a purple Polo off of a rack jammed with clothes and pronounced it appropriate. I put on my slacks, the Polo, my sportcoat and presented myself.

Now I should admit that I am not immune to being checked out by the girls, but even I was a bit unnerved as there roving eyes scrutinized me from top to bottom. They asked where my shoes were (I had just worn shorts, running shoes and white ankle length socks) and I said that I had brown and black dress shoes at home. They doubted me, asked my shoe size and pulled from a big box of shoes an old beat up pair of men's dress shoes, grabbed a pair of black socks and instructed me to put them on. Having done so, we adjourned into the next room where the Boss was. She was probably in her mid-fifties, and I could tell from the nicotine stained fingers, anorexic figure and fashionable haircut that she was a pro. But then, so was I! I relaxed as I realized we had a lot in common - working with the stars, knowing how the inside works, making little jokes at things only we would understand. After more scrutiny, she pronounced me approved. They took a picture of me, then took my clothes and the loaner shoes and socks, tagged and bagged them and hung them on the rack.

Ah! The life of an actor. I see myself walking the red carpet at the Oscars, holding back tears as I give a nod to Nicholson and a slight wave to Clint Eastwood. Gentle reader, know that it's scary being an insider! I begin my speech:

"I'd like to thank the members of the Screen Actor's Guild for rescuing me from a life of mediocrity to to the mountain of masterpieces. And on that mountain I stand on the shoulders of giants - the men and women of the film trade that seduced me into stardom, who supported me through the mean years and the lean years. Your encouragement has transformed the man who now stands before you from obscurity to prosperity, from meaningless to meaningful, from boring to soaring - - - I am Dave Mundt"

As if they were one, the acamedy springs to their feet. Roaring out their approval, cheering and waving to see me acknowledge them, the people who put me here are now my puppets. I am a benign puppeteer though - my machinations are not malignant, but executed in such a way that stardom will never go to my head.

Humbly then, I bid you farewell as my next post I prepare.

Lights - Camera - ACTION! - Part One

It's difficult being in the position I find myself. You see, I'm standing on a precipice - my life is branching into a new direction that I did not anticipate, but is now accelerating with a dizzying pace. As I approach the brink, I'm reminded of great people of history and how their risk taking led to the unimagined heights that I too ascend to.

You see, I am a humble man, born into a middle class family and living what could be considered a mundane but pleasant life. Not that is stated in a pejorative way, only to illustrate that life has only been punctuated briefly by flashes of brilliance like midwest lightning preceding a downpour. Now I found that the downpour is beginning - not of rain, but of fame. In my humility, I am somewhat awed by this fame. Surely I did not ask for this fame. Fame found me. I fear that stardom has been stalking me, and as a rudder steers a mighty ship, as a bit in the mouth of the horse shapes the journey, as stealthily as a repo man in the dead of night - I am destined for greatness.

I'm going to be in a movie. Purely by chance (or was it fate?) I happened across an open casting call for an extra in a movie directed by Sean Penn. The movie, Into the Wild, is an adaptation of a real life story of a young privileged college graduate who walks away from his life, eventually leaving friends, eschewing culture and dying starving, alone, penniless and frozen in an abandoned school bus in Alaska. You can read more about it here.

I showed up with several hundred other people, aspiring actors and actresses all. I filled out an application, and was ushered in front of a polaroid camera where a snapshot would soon be stapled to the application. It was almost eerie - as the photographer got ready to take the picture, in her eyes and body language I could see the thoughts in her mind as easily as I type these words:

I'm looking at the Next Big Thing. Cruise is crazy, Eastwood is old, Nicholson moves to nothingness, Pitt is passe' - and standing before me is the Majestic Mister Mundt.

Well, I made the cut and was told I will be in the movie. Lest you begin to groan as my story starts, I assure you that this is no easy thing. Many decisions lie before me. A movie star is always before the camera. I must be ready, in season and out of season, to display my regal demeanor in a way that satiates my fan base. Oh, my fans! The hordes, the massing throngs of ordinary people seeking a nod, an autograph, a wave, a picture with me for the relatives - how I love them as they adore me!

More decisions are soon to be made - my agent, my lawyer, my entourage - the small circle that will accompany my greatness and hitch their wagons to my rising star. And central in this group - my wife Sherry. She never gave up believing me, as I studied my lines and practiced my parts her encouragement provide me with the inner fortitude I would need as popularity pursues me.

My scene is at a college where I'll play a family member witnessing the graduation. Supposedly set in Atlanta, Georgia the scene is being filmed at Reed College here in Portland. There is an interesting juxtaposition about Reed College - well known locally for the flagrant student body drug and acohol abuse that turns them into Karl Marx devotees. In a curious cold war juxtaposition, it's the only American college (to my knowledge) with a nuclear reactor on the campus. There's just something about stoned communist students skinny dipping in the cooling pond that's slightly unnerving.

Well, I digress. Welcome friends and join me on the journey as I continue to blog the miracle of my movie career.

Ode to Sandy Herron

(this post dedicated to my friend Jim)

Sandy Herron was a babe before I even knew what a babe was. But, this post is really not about Sandy - it's about me. One of the most confusing events of the male life is the transition to, and coming out of; puberty. I'm still confused, but that is the topic of perhaps another blog entry!

Now, females just don't know how hard it is to be a male! I think of the song "I'm Eighteen" by Vincent Damon Furnier (better known as Alice Cooper):

Lines form on my face and hands

lines form from the ups and downs

I'm in the middle without any plans

I'm a boy and I'm a man

I'm eighteen and I don't know what I want

eighteen I just don't know what I want

18 I gotta get away I gotta get out of this

place I'll go runnin' in outer space

I got a baby's brain and an old man's heart

took eighteen years to get this far

Don't always know what I'm talkin' about

I'm livin' in the middle of doubt

'cause I'm 18 I get confused every day

eighteen I just don't know what to say

eighteen I gotta get away

Well, preceding that phase comes a change of life for a boy, and even preceding that comes the stage of wonderment. And that's where Sandy comes in. A few days ago I needed to run and errand. I was barefoot and too lazy to put on shoes, so I just hopped in the truck and off I went. The sensation of the ridges on the brake and gas pedals against my bare feet unearthed a memory of Sandy. Sandy's little brother David was my friend. He and I would pal around in the hot southern California summers. One scorching day, Sandy volunteered to take David and I to the beach. Wow! An adventure for two young boys, it must have been the summer of 1966 - 67.

I'm guessing Sandy was about 17-18. The reason I'm guessing that is if my memory serves correct, I think part of her permission to drive to the beach (which was about 1.5 hours from the Mojave desert where we lived) was contingent upon taking little brother and his dorky friend along. David and I were probably about 9-10 years old. Sandy was blond, and pretty. And above everything else:

SHE DROVE BAREFOOT!

Wow, how fascinating - this exotic creature was! I was intrigued. With the precipice of puberty still a short time away, it wasn't a sexual interest, nor even bewilderment that bound me. It was just that she was so daring! I couldn't comprehend how someone so young and pretty could evidence such a haughty disdain for caution. I mean, the consequences could be catastrophic! What if the car broke down? She might actually have to walk on pavement barefoot! And then, that's exactly what she did. The car didn't break down, but we had stopped at some burger joint for lunch. I was mesmerized as she opened her door, and then her bare foot met hot asphalt. My heart stopped as she then shifted her weight, put her other foot down and began to walk. David and I followed in our thongs (now, lest you giggle I'll remind you that language changes over time and the vision you have in your mind has nothing to do with the cheap little rubber flip flops we would wear). She was incredible, she was invulnerable, she lived life on the edge.

Here's my ode to Sandy:

Sandy Herron, memories reach far,
driving barefoot in a now ancient car,

a pretty girl, with blond hair fair,
a risk taker, an adventurer who drove with feet bare.

Well, here it is FORTY YEARS later. At the most conservative estimate Sandy is now 56 years old. She may even have grandchildren by now for crying out loud! I imagine the Sandy that lives today is nothing like the Sandy of 1966. I'm sure that she doesn't even remember that day. But I do! I hope you are well and happy Sandy, and I hope that once in a while - you still drive around in your bare feet!

Hood to Coast 2006 - it's REALLY all about Squawk!

Hello, my name is Squawk. I live with my dad Steve at work. Not that dad lives there, but he leaves me here when he goes home. My primary duties are to monitor and control the work area, specifically to discourage loud, irrational or exuberant behavior. One of the greatest violaters is this wacko named Dave. He occasionally breaks out in song, or tells a stupid joke. Therefore, my alert status goes from yellow to red if Dave is present.

I've had some pretty wild adventures in my young life. I've been kidnapped, had my heart broken, and yet lived to see another day. I've even had my life threatened. One time, Steve and Reed were tossing me around and Steve flipped Reed the bird. That's a lot for a little guy like me to go through.


I decided it was time for me to get in shape, and what better way to train for and then run the 25th Hood to Coast. The 25th anniversary is a big deal and I was excited. Doofus Dave was supposed to be our navigator, but he continually annoyed dad by saying things like "hmmm - we should've turned left there Steve" and "turn right at the house that used to be painted yellow". Sigh. Finally, I had to get on the dashboard and lend my own skills to the navigation of the team. Having 'flown the coop' so to speak several times, and flying south for the winters to my home in South America, I'm used to finding my way around. Little did I know what I was signing up for!

One of the more satisfying experiences of running in this race is a quaint little tradition known as "road kills". Hey, let's get honest for a minute - being a member of the bipedal, warm blooded, oviparous vertebrate group the category called road kills does not exactly give me the warm fuzzies. However, I was (somewhat) relieved to find that in this instance road kills refers to your passing another runner. In these instances it is customary to say something like "hey, you're looking good" which sounds encouraging but really means "LOSER! My wheelchair bound blue haired barely breathing grandma can run faster than you can". Oh, the same. Well, I got a road kill! Here I am, passing of all people, dad. Oh, he tried really hard but when push comes to shove chivalry dies on the wayside and it's all about beating the other runner(s) to the exchange point.

At one point in the race I realized that I just didn't have it in me to truly think I could do this on my own. Fortunately, we passed a church where I could take a moment and meditate on my motives for desiring to crush the competition. Am I wrong for thinking this way? WWPD? Yes, What Would Polly Do? Polly is my sister who when she is not in church is asking for crackers. Over and over. SOMEONE GIVE THAT BIRD A CRACKER!

After the spiritual crisis I continued to run as I've never run before. I was fortunate enough to get a sponsor, and let me tell you having the opportunity to wear some world class running shoes really helped me a lot.


Well, I have to say that all of the hard work was so worth it. I flew to the finish without getting my feathers ruffled and even got a nifty finisher's medal! Boston Marathon, watch out....

Mr. Goodwrench

In our previous installment I wrote about missing a race that is dear to my heart, the Aluminum Man triathlon. Hopes dashed by a rough running engine that could have led to a broken down truck stranding me on the side of the road, with a heavy heart I turned back and barely made it home. To my humiliation, I was even passed by a 1972 Chevette.

I was confident that the problem was a fouled plug, and decided to change the plugs. I managed to get to an auto parts store that was a mile from home, and walked up to the counter wearing an old Hood to Coast t-shirt, Nike shorts and a Volcom 'hoodie'. Now it has been a few years since I've been under the hood of a car, and I didn't look like a mechanic but when I started talking to the counterman the proper behavior came back to me - I leaned my elbow on the counter and pretended I was picking some cigar tobacco out of my teeth. I nonchalantly asked if he had any spark plugs for a 1998FordRanger4.0LiterV6. He leaned his elbow on the counter, swatted at an imaginary fly and said "yeahithinksoletmecheckmyinventory". Having now established ourselves as Men Who Know How To Fix a Car, we could transition into a normal conversation.

He had the spark plugs, and I thought that I should purchase some plug wires as well. The Black Widow (the nickname for my truck, because it is black and people say the way I drive I'm going to make a widow out of Sherry) has topped 100,000 miles now and has not ever had the wires changed. Seemed like the right thing to do. I then asked if he had a distributor cap and rotor, knowing that it was electronic ignition I still expected a cap and a light emitting rotor that would trigger the appropriate plug to fire. I was surprised, and he was also, to find that there is no distributor cap - the wires go right into the coil. Alllrighty then - maybe it has been too long since I've done some simple maintenance!




Returning home, I pulled halfway into the garage and began to prep my work area. I first plugged a mechanic's best tool - a garage stereo. True mechanics keep a portable "boom box" radio/cd player in their work area. The selection of music is supremely important - country music will lead to the vehicle somehow finding it's way onto your lawn with the hood up for the rest of your life. Real mechanics listen to classic rock. I then opened a beer. Not having a true mechanic's beer (Bud, no Bud Light) I had to settle for a sissy microbrew. That's OK, it's just for show not for go. With a slight swagger I pulled out my Craftsmen rollaway. Yeah, I've got a rollaway toolbox stuffed with probably a grand of Snap-On and Mack tools from my years in machine shops. Of more importance it has high performance stickers all over it. Moroso, Crane Cams, Hooker Headers, Edelbrock - ahhh, the memories - there is nothing in the world that gives me goosebumps than two 750 CFM dual feed double pumper Holley carburetors perched on top of a GMC 6-71 supercharged Chevy 454 cubic inch 10:1 compression 4 bolt main steel crank aluminum rods and aluminum ported and polished heads with triple springs, solid lifters activated by a Crane cam pushing the rods through bronze guides. Sigh. Those were the days!

BONUS QUESTION: if you can answer this question without looking it up on Google, you will earn my undying respect as a member of the mechanic's brotherhood. I even found some unopened Plastigage. For 20 points, what is Plastigage?

OK, now it's time to pop the hood in the present. Yikes. What a mess! Now, times were when you could stick a tennis racket sideways between the fender well and the engine block. I had a 1967 Camaro that you could pop the hood and say "carburetor" and not unlike the Grand Canyon you would hear and echo coming back. Well let me tell you that the engine compartment had more wires, hoses, manifolds, smog control devices, belts, gears, pulleys, and electronic devices than Starbucks has overpriced coffee. Under a bird's nest of wires I even found a small microwave that you could heat up a burrito in. At least I think it was a microwave, it could have been the air cleaner.

Plunging my hands through the tangle, the familiar smell of grease and oil wafted through the air like the perfume of your first girlfriend. This was my zone! I removed the plugs (with great difficult, swivel headed 3/8 ratchet with all kinds of extensions mated to the standard 5/8 socket). Sure enough, number 3 was fried. I then removed the new plugs and gapped them, installed them and then went to work on the plug wires. What an effort! Those wires snaked through the intake manifold like you wouldn't believe. It was so bad that for cylinder #6, I actually left the old wire IN the manifold and ran the new one across the top! I started it up and woohoo - it ran perfect.

Next year, Aluminum Man here I come. Years from now; someones going to be working on the engine and find that wire, unattached at both ends. They're going to look at it in bewilderment. But I know why!

Aluminum Man Triathlon 2006

With great anticipation I carefully packed my triathlon kit Friday night. The Aluminum Man takes place every year just after my birthday. It's a chance for me to move up in my age group and hopefully continue to outlive the competition.

Wetsuit, check. Goggles, check. Bike pump and toolkit, check. Cycling shoes & helmet, check. Running shoes, check. Shorts and jersey, check. Ready to get up early Saturday morning and hit the road to The Dalles, Oregon. Forgetting the bike, priceless. Oh wait! Bike, check. I loaded my bike and all my gear, filled the truck with gas and was eager to achieve glory and crush the competition. Or at least survive and not make a fool out of myself.

I had even done something I had not done in the past 3-4 triathlons - I trained! For the swim that is. I had sufficiently trained for the run and cycle, but I've always been a good swimmer and the last few years had lapsed into a 'eh, whatever - I can do this" attitude. Which is probably not the optimal training approach. Now, when I say trained it means this - one session in the pool, gasping out about 35 laps. OK, perhaps I could have trained harder - but at least my confidence went up a notch!

Saturday morning: rested and refreshed from a good night's sleep, I got up early and enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee, and hit the road about 6:00 AM. I was surprised at how much traffic there was on I-5 on a Saturday morning. Well, I had only gotten about 15 miles from home when the truck started acting funny, then missing, then missing worse. I was 99% certain that I had fouled a plug. My options were few - I could try to press on, but then that would inevitably damage the engine. I could pull over and hitchhike, hoping a fellow triathlate going to the race would take pity on me and I could hop a ride. I also could try to make it home (the truck was running very bad and losing power) and go by Landmark Ford, knowing that they had a 24 hour service department and see if they could help.

Limping into the dealership, a service manager came out to meet me. It was now about 7:15 AM. I beseeched him to show mercy on a fellow human, just a 20 minute diagnosis by a tech, pop in a new spark plug and I could make the race on time. If I had had a cracked block (referring to the engine and not my head, to be clear) or manifold my problems would be greater than making the race anyway. "Sorry", he demurred - "I only have one technician working but there will be someone here at 8:00". "Of course," I replied - and then asked again for just a little assistance - help a brother out. "Tell you what", he said "I have another technician coming in at 8:00 and then we'll help you out". "So, just to be crystal clear, you're not going to help me are you before 8:00 AM?" The answer came back again "Someone will be here....". I tuned him out knowing that a tune up was not going to happen. Thanks Landmark Ford!

I made it home, running very rough. The truck wasn't doing well either. protesting too. By this time though the race was pretty much over for me. I had a last minute thought to call my friend Patty, she was heading out to Cycle Oregon llater in the day and I remember her saying that she was going to ride with a friend. I knew (or at least hoped) that perhaps she would loan me her car but even if we could work that out I knew that I would not make it in time.

So, my morning went something like this:

1. For want of a spark plug, the truck was lost.
2. For want of the truck, the commute was lost.
3. For want of the commute, the start was lost.
4. For want of the start, the race was lost.

Bummer! But there's always next year.

I'm a winner - 1976 and 2006

In the junk mail this weekend was a notification from Landmark Ford. I was pleased and excited to see a guarantee that I am DEFINITELY A WINNER of one of the prizes below.

Before we look at my prize, I should say that the last time in my life that I was a winner was 30 years ago. In 1976, I was driving down the road in my 67 Camaro, probably listening to a brand new rock group named Aerosmith on the AM radio who I thought would probably fade into obscurity within a few years. All of a sudden there was an announcement that if I was caller number 10 I WOULD WIN A PRIZE! At that moment I was driving by a gas station with a phone booth and I had a dime in my pocket. Pulled in, plunked the dime, dialed the number and I WON.....a Barry Manilow album. Well, in retrospect I'm not sure if that could truly be considered a win, but mom liked the album.

Let's fast forward to THIRTY years later - I'm a winner again! Now that I've kept you in suspense, let's contemplate my prize. Note that there are several prizes, and the odds of winning were published next to each prize:

1. $20,000.00! Odds are 1:12,000
2. $2,000.00 Cash! Odds are 1:12,000
3. $1,000.00 Cash! Odds are 1:12,000
4. Sony Big Screen TV! Odds are 1:12,000
5. 50 Piece Tool, Bit & Socket Set ($29.00 value) Odds are 11,996:12,000

If I were so inclined to go in, which prize do YOU think I would have won? Yeah, that was my guess too!

Hood to Coast 2006 - it's not all about me!

Our story begins with my looking at a shiny silver medal commerating the 25th anniversary of the Hood to Coast relay race.

Unfortunately and with great personal anguish I was forced to drop out this year (just like last year) with a seizure. But it's not all about me! I choked back my pride and ego, and got up very early Saturday morning to volunteer for the race and support my team in a different way than I had planned. I wanted though to meet them at the beach and cheer on their accomplishments as we had several newbies running for the first time!

First, I want to thank Steve. I was very glad that he volunteered to drive our van, with his former Navy career as a Chief Engineer and his current career as a senior project manager he would keep things together and see the mission completed. He did so admirably (just a slight Navy pun there, "Admiral Gueck"), even to the extent of running one of my legs for me! Additionally, he served as our staff photographer and took many fine shots of the race. Bravo Zulu Steve!






















Next up is Steve Abrew. I called Steve literally four days before the race (we had a last minute cancellation) and asked if he would run. He fit the qualification in two fine ways - he is a fun guy and a runner! A nice combination to complement the team. Another first timer, he earned his medal not only for his own running but he too grabbed one of my legs. Thanks Steve and congratulations to you too!

Reed Gillette is one of the funniest people I know. I've had the experience to travel with Reed on a few business trips, and when I travel I like to find a gym to work out at. Reed's of the same mind, and travels under the name of Brad Pitt since he's a dead ringer for the movie star. Reed and his wife Andrea compete in these CrAzY extreme competition adventure races events where they run, mountain bike, rappel, hike, kayak, mountain climb, rollerblade, snorkel, orienteering - and that's before breakfast. Reed also is fond of taking pictures of himself with some other person, and has a collection of about 700 people now that have been shot with Reed.
















Hmm, let me rephrase - have shared a photograph with Reed. When Reed and Andrea were not running they found other ways to amuse themselves.




Brian Windheim came back for year two, and in his usual understated way proceeded to slaughter the competition. Just look at the poise, the confidence, the theme song of Rocky 17 "Eye of the Tiger" playing in his iPod. He's also got a wicked funny sense of humor! Brian also ran a leg for me - thanks man!








Dustin Woodhouse was the van driver last year, and had so much fun he just had to be a runner this year. He was a bit apprehensive and called me (actually before my seizure) and we talked a bit and rehearsed some of the things I've learned through the years. Congratulations Dustin, you earned that medal!

















Will Nielsen was new to the team this year, and also jumped in at the last minute. I'm glad you could join the team Will!





There are two things that are paramount for my love for Hood to Coast. One is the hardware, getting that finish medal at the beach and the wonderful sense of accomplishment. The second is the goofy antics in the van.


Well, the team talked me into accepting the medal, but this year it means something different for me - not running the race, but sharing in the organizing, training and fun that a great group of people bring - you make me proud!

From the left:

1. Smilin' Steve Abrew
2. Reed "you call this a RACE?" Gillette
3. Scott "Hey-I'm not looking at my crackberry" Hess
4. Squawk "where's the chicks?"
5. Diana "let's do it again!" Hess
6. Will "Road Kill" Nielsen
7. Andrea "kiss me Reed" Haslem
8. Dustin "get that camera out of my nostril Brian" Woodhouse
9. Julie "c'mon - just let me close my eyes for a minute" Brooks
10. Brian "hey watch me stick this camera up Dustin's nose" Windheim
11. Brady "I always look this good after a race" Wycherly

Not pictured:

1. Steve "get in the van, man!" Gueck