Dream Diary

I dreamt that was driving past a house we used to own. I should clarify that it was a house we owned within the dream, it is not a real world home. It was a small house that we had bought for an investment. We flipped it and made a little tidy profit. It was vacant and I stopped to reminisce.

There was a concrete walkway that connected the house to a second structure. It was big like a barn, but more like a large shop, but kind of had the elements of a home. In the dream even when we owned the house for some reason I had never gone inside. It's hard to describe and the exterior is still a bit fuzzy. But it's the inside that counts.

I opened the door to the shop and found myself on the landing of a small porch, that had a ladder going up into another level, and stairs descending to a lower level. The room I was in was like a typical garage, with tools, yard equipment, junk and more junk. No suprises. I decided to go up the ladder to the level above me.

The ladder was backwards. What I mean be this is that most ladders are positioned at an angle to aid your stability and stepping up. This ladder was in some weird way backwards, where your ascent was on the 'wrong' side of the ladder and it was very awkward climbing up. Up and up I climbed, as I moved up the ladder seemed to grow in length so the illusion was that I was not making any progress. Finally though I poked my head into the upper level, and pulled myself up into a cavernous room. It defied the dimensions defined by the second level. There was no furniture, no sheetrocked walls, no flooring. Just framed in with dark and aged wood. The weird thing was that all of the framing was elaborately carved with bizarre symbols. The room was so large that I could not see the far walls, they just went on and on into darkness.

A feeling of evil pervaded the room. Like the mist of a fog it seemed to close in on me. The terror grew and I went down the ladder as quickly as I could back to the level I started on. The strange feeling dissipated and I decided to descend to the lower level.

I walked down a short flight of stairs, maybe 10 steps and turned a corner and looked into a large room. It was not as big as the upstairs room of terror, but it was larger than the exterior again would define. It was carpeted with a deep, olive color shag rug. It was completely empty except for one thing, relatively large on the far side of the room. I walked over and as I got closer I could see what looked like an easy chair with a body in it. Arriving in front of it, I saw that there was an elderly woman who looked to be dead. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open. I jumped out of my skin and beat feet to get out the door and back into the sunlight.

And then, I woke up.

What I REALLY want for Christmas

We all know the status of our economy. I believe that leads to an awareness that a charitable act can carry even more weight than usual. Sherry and I are so thankful for a roof over our heads, jobs that support us and friends and family that add so much joy to our lives. There are people this year, and maybe some that you know; that have lost jobs, and perhaps even the roof.

What I would really ask for Christmas in 2008 is that you would join me in bringing some relief into a needy family's life. My friend John has set up a link on his blog that you can make a donation. I would humbly ask that you take a few minutes to consider giving. I believe you will be blessed knowing you have made a difference. I think you'll be glad you did.

John's post is eloquent and touching. Please find it here.

What I want for Christmas

Every year I add to my wish list for Christmas. I have never received anything I have asked for. This year will likely not be an exception. I find that my wishes always drift to wheeled things (I thought about asking for a baby elephant but the costs and care would be egregiously out of reach). I like things with wheels and engines, engines and wheels. Previously I have written about my love affair with classic American muscle cars. I have grown to appreciate the little high revving foreign cars (and their drivers) but no Tokyo Drift for me.

But I digress - Sherry, I want a Brammo Enertia. Yep, Blah Blah Blahg is going green. It's a nifty little good lookin' scooter with an electric battery for propulsion. Here's a nice comment from the Enertia website:

Form doesn't follow function, they are the same. Simple, elegant design that looks as good sitting still as it does silently speeding through the next street corner. Every part of the Enertia was designed with the rider in mind.

Check it out:

Snappy looking ride, eh? Now, with a top speed of only fifty (50!) MPH she's not going to get you out in front of some other two wheel monsters, like a Suzuki Hayabusa with a top speed of around one hundred and ninety (190!) MPH, almost 4 times as fast and turn heads on the freeway. But, with 100% of it's torque available off the line, it's going to pop a nice wheelie.

To impress your green friends, be sure to mention that the Enertia has a Valence Lithium Iron Phosphate battery.

Sherry, if you can't afford the Enertia, would you get me one of these? It may not be as green but it sure looks like fun.

The Art of Tim

My pharmacist's name is Tim. I value him not only for the hallucinatory respite from the harsh realities of this vale of tears we call life, but that his art is pleasant and calming to my troubled soul. OK, I'm being a bit dramatic - but I really do like his art. Here's one of my favorites:

K-9 Corps - New Recruit

Charlie continues to amaze and astound us with his recollections of being in charge of an immense metropolitan police department.

Today's installment allows us civilians to obtain an insider view of the hitherto cloaked K-9 operations. For purposes of confidentiality we'll just refer to the dog as "K-9". Let's listen to Charlie recount his first experiences in the 'early years' of K-9 deployment:

"My first experience with a K-9 police dog wasn't with one of those expensive, extensively trained dogs. Instead, I had a deputy who had a pet Weimaraner. He talked the Sheriff into using him as a K-9 dog, claiming he had a good sense of smell and could track anything.

The first time we used our new K-9, it was on a burglary in progress. The suspect fled on foot and was hiding in the area. We had a really good perimeter set up around the burgler with about ten Deputies on site.

All eyes were on our new K-9 as he left the police car to start the track. The dog immediately ran over to a neighborhood dog and started humping it. Watching a working dog in a professional-looking reflective vest humping a citizen's pet is a little embarrassing.

Another time we had a burgler surrounded in a house. Our K-9 Deputy insisted he send in his dog to apprehend the bad guy. He got on the loudspeaker and shouted "Come out or I'll send in the dog".

After saying this about five times with no results, he released the dog. Our K-9 ran through the front door and then jumped out one of the rear windows to start chasing birds bathing in the backyard birdbath.

When we got the burglar out of the house he asked us what was wrong with our dog. Even the bad guys were wondering about this dog.

Another time we went to a bank alarm and brought in our fearsome K-9. It turned out to be a false alarm and all the employees wanted to pet the dog. As we were talking to the employees, the dog walked over to a plant in the lobby and peed all over it."

Save the leg! Don't take the leg!

It was a fine Thursday afternoon. The sun was out and the water was warm. We were out on Kim's boat, all set to enjoy a late afternoon/early evening ski on the Columbia. Smooth water, nice munchies, good people. What could possibly go wrong? Here I am - confidently surveying the scenery as we looked for just the right spot.

Now I'm in the water, that tiny little dot 70 feet behind the boat, on the right hand of the picture. Momentarily the ski would lift me into a marvelous display of jumping the wake and touching my elbow as I skate across the water like Tonya Harding on steroids:

I hadn't skiied in probably 10 years. But it's just like riding a bike, right? I was never as good a skier as my sister, but our years at Shasta Lake afforded us many opportunities to slalom to our heart's content. You just pop up out of the water and the river or lake is your playground. Nay gentle reader, my fifty year old body registered a violent protest. As I attempted to get up on the ski (for the second, or was it the third time?) I felt a ripple in my right hamstring, and instantly my leg flooded with pain. The kind of pain where you know you are severely injured. Kim pulled the boat around and Kristar helped hoist me out of the water.

Kim made an ice bag, and I sat on it all the way back to the dock. I limped up to the parking lot, the pain continued to increase. I had beads of sweat on my forehead but made into the driver's seat. We were in Scappoose, and it waves of pain washed over me as I headed home. I had a terrible night, and the next day I asked Sherry to take me to urgent care. The doctor ran through one of those "does this hurt?" examinations. I had a fleeting moment where I wondered if my massive muscles would hinder her poking and prodding, but it seemed to be going OK. Until she hit the tear. I'm embarrassed to admit this but I screamed, literally; and tears came to my eyes. It hurt so bad. She gave me a shot, it wasn't morphine but something like it; and then told me to take the maximum dose of ibuprofen every four hours, and Vicadin to help sleep.

Well, that didn't touch it. The next Monday I went to the orthopedic surgeon. He acknowledged that it was a severe tear but that (thankfully) surgery was not required. He prescribed Oxycontin and Flexeril. My typical regimen became 12 ibuprofen, 3 Vicadin and 2 Oxycontin in 24 hours. The pain was so bad that I couldn't dress myself, which was embarrassing but Sherry just laughed and told me it was preparation for my old age. Ha, I'll get her for that. I had to use a cane for 2 weeks.

Here it is two months later and with a dozen therapy visits I managed to run a half mile on the treadmill and cycle for 45 minutes at the gym last weekend. The road to recovery is now fully in progress!

Check it out:

It's not...

I took some writing samples, and it's not:

1. Daren
2. Gary
3. Debbie
4. Jim
5. Julie
6. Vonne
7. Kim
8. Todd
9. Robert
10. Claudia
11. Reed
12. Brent
13. Kelly
14. John

It might be Ron. It's very likely that it is Charlie. But there's a unique twist which also points to Daryl Lynn. And just what does Johnny Cash have in common with Chicago, Fort Worth and Martinsburg West Virginia?

I don't like spiders and snakes, and especially snakes.

Snakes are just, well kind of creepy to me. Mesmerizing in their locomotion, they slither across my imagination harkening feelings of revulsion but fascination. A new fad blooms though, apparently with people who aren't as averse to the reptiles as I am. As reported in Time magazine, an offbeat spa in Israel uses snakes as a methoed of relaxation. Imagine yourself as the recipeient of the snake massage in this picture:

Can't you imagine the comfort and relaxation that experience would engender? Yeah, I can't either. Especially if one of the snakes gets a bit out of control. Spiegel reports on a 13-foot python called Antonia that tried to eat a zookeeper in Germany. Antonia launched itself at the zookeeper's face and commenced the long process of swallowing her up. The zookeeper didn't panic, and with the help of colleagues (read the article for the interesting application of water and why it helped) was able to extricate herself from the grip of the snake's teeth.

You know, those massages where they put hot rocks on your back sounds just about as adventurous as I'd like to go.

Congratulations to Doug!

One fine day I met a colleague via the phone. Really nice guy, he helped me with a technical problem. As it turned out we had cycling in common. As we talked, he mentioned how it had been a dream of his to someday ride his bike across the nation. Yes, from sea to shining sea. I was dutifully awed as he explained that he was about two months from starting the journey! I think that is fantastic. The farthest I've ever rode was Seattle to Portland (on the organized bike ride here in the Pacific Northwest).

I asked if he was going to somehow keep us abreast of his journey, and he put me in touch with another colleague who put together a Google Maps mashup of Doug's trip. As he rode and communicated with her she would update the map! Before reading further, I invite you to take a few minutes to carefully study and think about his route. Note how many miles it was coast to coast - 2,959 miles! Oh, and then let's ride another 300 or so home. But wait, he did it unsupported! And, in 28 days! Let the enormity of it sink in. Imagine how hard it would be. Check it out here, and then please come back and continue on to read some of Doug's excerpts as he recounts highlights of the trip.

From Doug:

"Thanks to everyone for their thoughts and prayers. Except for the dog incident in North Carolina, I had no real problems, which for the length and duration of this trip was pretty incredible.

According to my GPS, the total trip mileage was 3460 miles, which averaged out to 123.5 miles per day. I completed the cross country part (Oceanside to Myrtle Beach) in 23 days, which is about 5 days sooner than I expected. This allowed me the opportunity to ride back to Ohio, a nice bonus.

The weather overall was excellent. I had 3 days of rain between El Paso and Dallas. The first day was pretty bad, a lot of lightning and high winds. The second two days were just a steady drizzle, not too bad.

The best part of the trip was being able to meet all my Checkfree friends in the Phoenix, Dallas and Norcross offices. The warm reception in all of the offices was much appreciated.

Crossing the desert was brutal. There is absolutely no shade, and there was one stretch where I rode about 70 miles before I found any food. A little shack of a gas station near Salt Flat, Texas. I had Gatorade and Twinkies for lunch.

At just about every meal stop, people would come up and ask "where are you headed?" The next most asked question was "Is anyone riding with you or following you?" Most people were surprised I was traveling alone, especially after they saw how little equipment I was carrying.

I got to Texarkana just as Ike was about to come thru. A lot of people in the Houston area were evacuating to the north. I got one of the last hotel rooms in Texarkana. Instead of continuing east into Shreveport, I decided to head north to avoid the storm. It turned out to be a good move, and I didn't get any rain during the day, although it did rain after I had stopped for the day.

I ate pretty well. I'd usually have the breakfast provided by the hotel, then stop after about 30-40 miles for a second breakfast. I stopped at Subway quite often for lunch. It seemed the subs were good for carbohydrates, digested easily, and were cheap. For dinner I usually tried to find a buffet or steakhouse. I found several great "home cooking" restaurants in the southeastern states. I craved ice cream, and made several stops at Dairy Queen. When I got to Myrtle Beach, I celebrated with 2 giant banana spits for dinner.

I've always felt that I've received more than my fair share in life. But after seeing how some people live and work in some of the rural areas in the south, I am even more convinced as to how fortunate I am. I have been very, very blessed in life.

I was climbing a hill about 20 miles from Mount Airy, North Carolina when two dogs came after me. I squirted one with my water bottle, and the second ran in front of me, hitting my front wheel and knocking me off the bike. Luckily, there was a crew of surveyors in a truck behind me that had a first aid kit. One of the locals who was an R.N. came out and bandaged up my elbow. Nothing on the bike was bent or broken, so after putting all the gear back on my bike, I rode into Mount Airy and overnighted there.

Virginia was the most difficult state to ride thru. It was almost all mountains, almost constant climbing. I overnighted on the Virginia/West Virginia border in a town called Bluefield. When I left in the morning it was 50 degrees and raining. I was so cold I was shaking. The rain quit after about 3 hours and the sun gradually started to come out.

I stayed in quite a variety of hotels. I'd stay at Hampton Inn's when they were available, but was in several towns that had only one or two very primitive hotels. One hotel in either Arkansas or Alabama was $29.95 a night, so you can image how basic it was.

I carried a very minimal amount of gear, but there wasn't anything that I found I needed that I didn't have. I pretty much just ate, rode and slept. I'd usually get on the road around 7:15, ride about 30-50 miles and stop for a snack, ate lunch around 2-3pm, and ride until close to dark. I'd use my GPS to locate the farthest hotel away that I could safely make before dark, to try to maximize my mileage. Only twice did I have to ride after dark. Once I was on a four lane divided highway that had one lane closed for repaving. I rode the newly paved closed lane for about 10 miles to the next town - my own private route!

In Arizona and New Mexico you can ride on the Interstates. Which is good, because there just aren't any other roads out there. The berms are wide and fairly smooth, but littered with debris from truck tires which caused several flats. Once I got to Carlsbad New Mexico and got off of the freeway, I never had another flat tire. As any cyclist would tell you, riding that far without a flat is incredibly lucky, and I wouldn't have thought it possible if it hadn't happened to me. So here is a commercial for Continental 4000S tires!

I missed my guitar, and also my weekend ritual of breakfast at Bob Evans. There are no Bob Evans restaurants out west, and the first one I found on my route was in Virginia - it was great!!!

So, all in all it was a fabulous adventure. I am so fortunate to have had the opportunity to do this ride. I appreciate all the folks at Checkfree who took up the slack while I was out. I know everyone had their workload increased to cover my absence.

I got back to Dublin around 3:00pm on Saturday, and the plan was to meet my dad at the bike shop on Sawmill Road to get my clothes, apartment key and bike case that I shipped to him from California. Little did I know that there was a full blown reception party waiting for me complete with cake and presents! My sister Karen made a great photo collage of the daily pictures I sent. There was about 20 people waiting for me.

The folks at Performance Bike Shop checked over my bike to make sure nothing got damaged as a result of the crash with the dogs, and everthing is working fine. I wore out the chain and rear gear cluster, but everything else is in great shape. I rode about 10 miles today to loosen up, and I'll gradually work back into my daily riding routine. I feel great, but after the adrenalin wore off, I started feeling a little of the tiredness. I have two more days of vacation left before I have to return to work."

Here's Doug at the start of his trip, in the Pacific ocean. Here he is at the end, in the Atlantic. Doug, congratulations on an amazing accomplishment!

Dream Diary

This was a strange one, even for me.

I dreamt that I was getting ready for a race. I decided to take a shower prior to putting on my race duds. However, the shower was just a nozzle. No walls. On a street corner. I think you can imagine where this is going, and I suppose there is no easy way to say it other than I was sans clothes in the nice hot spray as cars drove by.

Let's move on, shall we! I was at the start line with a bunch of friends, and I was carbo loading. I was eating quarters. It was so real that I can still kind of feel the texture and taste on my tongue, even from a dream. The quarters were hard but bendable, and I would bend one in half and pop it in my mouth and masticate with significant effort. They were difficult but manageable to chew. They had a metallic taste, which I suppose is no surprise. I don't want to bloviate unnecessarily, but it was the most vivid sensation I have ever dreamed. It makes me wonder if I really did consume a quarter in my sleep. Maybe Sherry stuffed some tinfoil in my mouth to stop the snoring.

Anyway, we were at the start line about 5 mins before the race began. Suddenly, I remembered that I had forgotten my shoes! I was standing there barefoot. In the dream a friend volunteered to lend me a pair of his shoes, but his house was about 8 blocks away. Knowing it was unlikely that we would make it there and back before the start, we ran to his house. I pulled on the shoes and then as the race passed his house we jumped in and started running. "Foul" you may cry, but there is no need for angst gentle reader. At the same that race was going, another race was actually crossing it. Yes, at an intersection both races converged in a cacophony of confusion.

And then I woke up.

The other side of the bib

Reed and Andrea are adventure racers. Unlike my puny efforts, they punish themselves with 24 hour and more races that may include running, mountain biking, kayaking, mountaineering, rappelling, and maybe even spelunking.

They had signed up for the Gorge Games this summer to do a 24 hour race, but the volunteer base was very thin. I like to support them when I can, so I signed up to volunteer. A few days later I received my assignment, which was at a 10K off road race. A realization settled in - a fixed race with a start time was not likely to be part of the adventure race! I was disappointed for two reasons - the first and foremost was that I would not see Reed and Andrea on their course. I was really hoping to cheer them on. The second was selfish - had I known there was a 10K trail run in advance - I would have entered!

However, having been on what I'll call "the other side of the bib" (see bottom of the post if explanation is needed) many times, I'm always appreciative and show my support of the volunteers that make a race possible.

I set my face to then be the very best volunteer that had ever helped at a race. I decided that I would take Kadie up to the gorge, knowing she would enjoy the great outdoors. The day dawned with a few sleepy clouds but the forecast was positive. I left before dawn, I'm one of those early rises who has to be early for a race early in the day before my early appointed post time. We drove the gorge and stopped a little park for a while to throw the ball for Kadie and wear her down a bit.

We then headed across the Columbia to White Salmon where the race location was. Even with my dilly-dallying I arrived an hour before the race. My assignment was to stand two blocks away from the start location with an orange flag. The printed directions given to the competitors had been wrong, and the organizers realized that a portion of the races would take the wrong turn and have to be flagged by none other than myself to go around the block and to the start.

I stood at my corner and as the first few cars came by me I gave them the appropriate wave of the flag guiding them down the correct street. I realized that this could then become very boring, for both myself and the drivers. So, I decided to spice things up a bit. As a car approached, I would go into elaborate flag drills, ending up with the flag pointing down the correct street! I contorted myself in various ways - whipping the flag over my head, behind my back, under a raised leg - in multiple permutations with a serious "this is my job" look on my face.

The drivers began to respond to my antics. Although there were a few sourpusses, most of them gave me an enthusiastic wave and smile. A carload of girls of the opposite sex even hooted at me, which only encouraged my direction pointing gymnastic endeavors. Soon, my back was aching and I was beginning to be plagued by a sore torso. Nay, physical hardship would not cause me to cave on my duties. I tried even more poses, getting sillier (and funnier) if I do say so myself. I was pleased when one driver reported to the race director that I was the most enthusiastic volunteer she'd ever seen. I'll say though that Sherry is the ABSOLUTE best athletic supporter, .....ah let me rephrase that - "motivational enthusiast" anyone will ever encounter.

Soon, all the cars had arrived and the race had started. It was an out and back down into a gully. I drove down to the gully to see if my services were still needed. Sure enough, I was placed at the finish to remove the timing chips from racer's shoes. I was intrigued because unlike the usual championchip that you affix to your shoes via the laces:

They had a timing system I had never seen before, it was like a credit card:

Very cool, except for one problem - because the chip card could be attached so firmly to the shoe it was very difficult to remove. The timing vendor gave myself and another volunteer those little blunt scissors they use for grade school projects. The blunt tip would not easily fit between the card and the shoelace, additionally the tiny finger holes on the handle cause my thumb to go numb after removing 3-40 of them from racer's feet. My thumb was actually numb for two days afterward, I feared I had some nerve damage or something but all is fine now.

The race medals were very cool, and every finisher got one. I had another few moments of envy when I saw the medals. But that's OK - I had a good time, Kadie had a good time and I was proud to help. And next year - I'll be racing and thanking some great volunteers!

Number Bib - a rectangular piece of Tyvek material printed with the race number of the individual wearing it. Typically affixed to the shirt with safety pins. I save mine from all the races I do and make comments on the back.

Book Review - Brighton Rock

Graham Greene was a prolific author. I have an anthology that includes 3 of this best known novels, Brighton Rock, The Power and the Glory, and The Heart of the Matter. From the back cover of this edition (QPB, 1991) this short bio is given:

"Greene was an adventurer and world traveler with a thirst for danger, and many of his novels are set in the vaired and distant locales he sought out. In all he wrote 54 books including novels (24 of them), short stories, plays, essays, travel and children's books; and two autobiographies"

Greene is noted for his much publicized conversion to Catholicism, largely due to the influence of his fiancee. I believe this was a significant turning point for his writing, as he became absorbed, and although some may disagree with me I don't hesitate to say obsessed; with moral dilemma and struggles.

Brighton Rock folds neatly into the pocket of moral dilemma. The characters are rich and as always Greene's eye for detail allows great visibility into the drama that unfolds before us. The book has two conundrums with which I struggled. The first is the era. Brighton Rock was copyrighted in 1938. Therefore, much of the language, culture and dialogue is 70 or so years old. Add to that the setting in an English seaside town with the nuances of a foreign culture and a good portion of the reading included attempting to understand the words and setting.

For example, upon embarking on the novel I had assumed that Brighton Rock was the name of the seaside town in which the drama takes place. The town is Brighton, but Brighton Rock as pointed out by the editor is

"..a form of stick candy as characteristic of English seaside resorts as salt water taffy is to Americans. The word "Brighton" appears on both ends of the stick at no matter what point it is broken off."

The story begins at full speed:

"Hale knew they meant to murder him before he had been in Brighton three hours."

Hale was a newspaperman. In that time, in English seaside towns; it was popular for newspapers to have contests. The itinerary and picture of a journalist was published in the paper and the journalist was given a fictitious name, in this case Hale was named by his paper Kolley Kibber. If a person approached the journalist, called him by the fictitious name and was carrying the appropriate newspaper a cash reward was given on the spot.

Hale was the target of a ragtag band of petty thieves out to get the reward money he carried. The leader of the band was a 17 year old nicknamed Pinkie, possibly due to his young age. Greene also refers to him frequently as "The Boy". The gang is involved in other extortion rackets, but the nucleus of the story revolves around the murder of Hale. Pinkie is ruthless and commands men older than him. The murder is carried out, but there are two figures introduced who have great potential to bring Pinkie and his gang down.

The first is Ida. Ida is a blustery, bosomy whirlwind. Her slightly flawed character is buoyed by her cheerful disposition (especially after a few glasses of beer or sherry), love for song and her unflagging optimism. As Hale realizes the plot unfolding around him, he seeks solace in Ida's company, which she readily signs up for. Hale's paranoia and disappearance ignite in her an unflagging, deterministic quest for his justice.

The second is Rose. Rose is young, impressionable and the product of a lower middle class family (like Pinkie) scraping by on a waitressing salary. Rose is party to a clue which could bring Pinkie and the gang down. Although she doesn't realize it, the power of her knowledge causes Pinkie to react in an unusual manner. Although he is sickened at the thought of it, she becomes his girlfriend, and then solely for the reason that a spouse cannot give legal testimony to the other spouse; he marries her. The romance is vacous and one sided. We feel pity for Rose - she is consumed by a love for Pinkie that is not reciprocated. He at times berates her and then comforts her.

Pinkie has a scarred psyche, exacerbated by his experience as an altar boy. At times of uncertaintly or fear, he lapses into reciting latin phrases he had been trained to memorize. His faith though is non-existent, he acknowledges that the only road before him leads to Hell and punishment.

It is on this road that the story traverses. The downward spiral of Pinkie's amoral actions accompanies his treatment, or mistreatment; of Rose. Even to his own ragtag band Pinkie displays cruelness and disdain. Ida plunges recklessy on, determined to find and bring Hale's murderers to justice. Once she gets close to Pinkie, his damaged psyche and the imminence of arrest and trial feed his downward spiral into greater acts of cruelty.

The story's climax is only slightly predictable, and is craftily done to the extent that I was swept up right to the end. I'll not provide a plot spoiler but only leave you with the main characters on a dark cliff in a storm. You'll have to read the book, and I heartily recommend it; to find out the ending!

Dream Diary

Many of my dreams involve water. I suppose that's natural as I love the water, love to swim. If I believed in reincarnation I'd probably be a dolphin.

Anyway, last night's installment had Sherry, Kadie (our beloved dog) and I camping at a lake. Kadie had wandered off and we were frantically looking for her. The lake was huge, and one end was shallow and there about 40 adults and kids swimming in roughly a 5 acre expanse. All of a sudden, people started screaming. A monster had eaten one of the kids, and then disappeared! Everyone got out of the water as quickly as they could. We all looked hard at the lake, and then someone spotted movement on the bottom. Emerging from the mud was an enormous snake, probably 60-75 feet long. It was black with red stripes. It swam from the bottom to the shore, and then attacked a small village on the perimeter of the lake.

It thrashed it's tail and smashed houses and threw cars into the air. We were all petrified in fear. The snake slowly moved to us, and then raised up out of the water and we could see that it was not really a snake but some kind of a lizard. It began very politely talking to people, introducing itself and letting us know it really wasn't that bad. It moved down a line of people and then to me.

The snake/lizard looked at me and I said "wow, you are really strong to knock down a whole village". The thing smiled shyly and said "yeah I suppose I am. Watch this - I'll lift you up!" He then proceeded to grasp me under my armpits and hoist me into the air. He exclaimed "don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you." He then put me down with nary a scratch or bruise.

Then I woke up.

Highway Haiku

Wow! Corvette flies by.
Now a Porsche roars past me.
Wish my truck was fast.

The smell of diesel...
exhausting, just like my day
off ramp - please save me

Old truck, engine roars
Dude! Shift that tranny up now!
Maybe clutch is fried...

What do you get...

..when you cross a backwoods country boy with a Buddhist monk?



A hillbilly that believes in rein-
tarnation!

Atheistic Evangelists

Here kitty kitty kitty....

What a novel idea! This guy affixed a "cat-cam" to his kitty's head. Amongst other feline activities, I would like to see what cat is walking on top of my truck at night, leaving kitty footprints everywhere. But, I'm not hear to discuss my pet peeves.

Now, what if that cat was eaten by this? Can you imagine the carnage that the cam might see? Nature is cruel. But nature can be even crueler - imagine that the cat does have 9 lives, and let's further imagine that cats are eligible for reincarnation. Let's continue our fantasy and imagine that the cat came back as this, and then eats the coyote! It's a dog eat dog world after all, and kitties too.

Exercises for the Manly Man

Heather Havrilesky (isn't that a great name?) talks to us about the the romanticization of the working class, springing from the self-loathing loins of a spoiled, flaccid nation in decline (her words). I love her writing. She tells us that:

The hardworking men and women of America are what make this country great! We'd thank them ourselves, if we knew any. Sadly, all we know are soft-assed nitpickers and middle-managing mouth-breathers and tender-pawed desk ornaments with hair-trigger tempers. But you can be sure that we'd slap a hardworking fella on the back for a job well done -- if we weren't surrounded by
overeducated hothouse flowers, lily-livered second-guessers, arrogant pencil pushers and self-proclaimed experts with corn-chip breath.

Wow! Maybe Heather should switch to decaf. She points out though that the success of recent shows like the Deadliest Catch, Ax Men, and Ice Road Truckers as testimony to honor our working class roots.

But Heather is not alone in her idolization of physical work. Witness the lyrics of a popular Brooks & Dunn song:

I'm a hard workin' man

I wear a steel hard hat

I can ride, rope, hammer and paint

Do things with my hands that most men can't

I can't get ahead no matter how hard I try

I'm gettin' really good at barely gettin' by

Early in my career I worked as an automotive machinist, electrician and then back to a machinist/parts rebuilder of air brake systems. Those were good days, when I could look at a pile of freshly machined cylinder heads or see a light bulb come alive as electricity flowed through wiring and switches that I had installed and see the fruit of my labors. My collars were blue, I spit wherever I wanted and poured out my cold coffee wherever I happened to be standing. Maybe I should write lyrics for Brooks & Dunn. Now that I'm an office worker I can appreciate Havrilesky's sentiments.

There is a need for us office workers to get into shape and return to the joys of physical labors. However, to jump right into such a job would likely injure a flabby body. However, someone has come up with a solution that can be a gateway back into the hard working man mentality - behold the Shovelglove!

Lest you laugh and think this is a wimpy device, behold the Shovelglove upgrade.

The Religion of In-N-Out Burger

I love In-N-Out Burger. Every time I go to California offers the opportunity for a Double Double. I rarely pass this opportunity up!

On a recent trip my mom pointed out the most curious thing. In tiny print on the bottom of the hamburger wrappers and drink cups were Bible verse addresses.

Not something you see very often. Being curious I sent a note to In-N-Out headquarters, here is the reply:

In response to your question, our owners have placed references to scripture on some of our packaging for many years as it is something they enjoy doing. Our customers' feedback indicates the subtle positioning of these references has made them somewhat of an In-N-Out Burger® tradition. They have been likened to our popular non-menu items such as the Animal or Wish burgers, in that customers who know they are there and want to see them are able to do so, while other customers may never notice or can choose to easily ignore them. Any specific message is left, if desired, to the reader.

Clean up your room!

A familiar refrain from my childhood that extends down the corridor of time to the present. First uttered by my mother, now the anthem has been adopted by my wife. And I still make messes out of my office and our bedroom. And the garage.

I have to admire this little girl's solution to her mothers insistence and apparently repeated injuctions to clean up her room. From The Scotsman:

Messy Room Leads to Police Raid

A nine year old German girl was so upset about having to tidy her room she put up a sign in her window urging passers-by to call the police for help. Officers rushed to the scene to discover the girl had rowed with her mother about tidying her room.

Not having maternal instincts myself, It's hard for me to imagine what I would do in that situation. However, I have to give credit to this mom for her way of dealing with the messy room.

Mom Reaches Breaking Point, Goes On Strike

"I'm quite tired of the bickering and I'm quite tired of talking and not being heard or listened to at all," she said. So, Toussaint pitched a tent on the front lawn of her east-end London home Wednesday and set up a sign reading, "Mom on strike." Since her job action began, Toussaint has returned to the house to help prepare some lunches and make sure the three dogs are taken care of, but says the rest is up to the kids. There has been a little progress so far. Toussaint said the upstairs bedrooms looked like Hurricane Katrina had swirled through when she left, but now resemble the aftermath of a tropical storm.

I bet my mom wishes she had thought of that!

QOTD

From Woody Allen:

I was thrown out of college for cheating on the metaphysics exam; I looked into the soul of the boy next to me.

Highway Haiku

Man in rain, arm out!

Raindrops splattering his sleeve

Oh! Cigarette smoke.

Gasoline too high

Must consider options

Shall I buy a horse?

Dream Diary

I dreamt I was trying to get to a destination. I can't remember where it was, or maybe in my dream the destination was never revealed to me. I was traversing a trail up a mountain, and it began to snow. I lost the trail and turned back, and saw a guy on another trail that I had not seen, paralleling the trail I was on. We chatted for a few minutes and he told me that the trail he was on would get to the place I was going, but it skirted the mountain and the lower elevation allowed for the abscence of snowy conditions.

I reached a point where the trail ended, and there were several guys on a treasure hunt. They were looking for a fortune that had been lost and believed they knew the location. We spoke for a few minutes comparing ideas and then I continued my journey.

The trail ended at a body of water that was man made. It was like a big lake, surrounded by a kind of shopping center or mall; similar to the Streets of Tanasbourne or Bridgeport, some upscale stores in the Portland area with an open, 'village' setting.

To get to the stores, I needed to swim. The water was bitterly, bone chilling cold but the clarity was amazing. I could see every detail down to the bottom. It was filled with all kinds of tropical fish that were amazing colors - I remember clearly one fish that was as big as a Volkswagen with blue and yellow stripes. There was another fish that had a horn like a unicorn, it had big brown eyes like a deer.

There was a concrete ledge about 20 feet below me. There were two guys walking along on the ledge (it was about 15 feet wide) talking animatedly. They seemed to be friends, and were wearing what appeared to be medieval clothing. I could hear their voices but not understand the words.

Soon I arrived at the stores, and pulled myself out of the water. I was so cold and my teeth were chattering as I stood outside a restaurant. A waiter came out, he was dressed all in white with a white apron. I asked him if I could have an extra apron to dry off with. He said, sure and walked back into the restaurant...

...and then I woke up.

Mid Year Race Report

The Shamrock Run is the traditional season opener for the Portland area racing community. This year was a big dog deal is it was the 30th anniversary of the event!

This year saw 16,000+ participants -The event achieved its fourth consecutive attendance record and had an incredible 45% increase over last year's record total of 11,000 runners and walkers!

It's a fun race as a lot of people dress up in goofy costumes. I showed an admirable restraint and ran in normal running gear. It was quite cold, but not raining which in Portland is a bonus, especially so early in the year. I ran well and felt good. The course was incredibly crowded and as I maneuvered through the throngs. At one point I hopped a curb and almost lost my balance. I stumbled and instinctively put my hands out in front of me. Unfortunately my left hand landed on the buttocks of a young lady. Out of the corner of her eye she had seen me stumble so my appalled apologies were accepted gracefully and I finished the race without further incident....except the parking.

I like to be early for a race, and the Shamrock was no exception. I found a parking place a block away from the start line. I was able to sit in my truck with the heater on and enjoy a half hour of visualizing myself striding across the finish line with my chest like the prow of a battleship breaking the tape as I stride across in first place, 3 minutes ahead of the second place finisher. In reality my stomach crosses the finish line before my mighty chest. Anyway, I digress. My strategic parking led to my inability to egress the downtown area! Runners still on the course blocked all potential exits. Oh well, I had picked up the newspaper on my way out the door and had another peaceful half hour of waiting with the heater on as I waited to cross the course.


Next up was the Race for the Roses. The website claims that:

"Portland is a town of two halves, one part cosmopolitan quirkiness, the other active outdoorsiness. The same could be said of those of us who live in and around it. For years, this locally run race has allowed runners to exercise both halves in the name of an outstanding, local, cause: Albertina Kerr Centers. Come experience why Race for the Roses has become a must-do event on the Northwest running calendar."

While not as quirky as the Shamrock, it's still a great race that goes over two Portland bridges, the Broadway and Steel bridges. It's cool to see the views, and I mean that literally in the sense of both visual and temperature purposes! It was quite windy on the Broadway bridge, to the point of being quite chilly. Off the bridges and on the streets though it was comfortable. I saw a few friends, and it was a much smaller race. I suppose one quirk is that every finisher gets a medal, and a rose! The tables of cut roses were beautiful to behold.

My next race was one of my favorite events of the year, the Pole Pedal Paddle relay race. This year was memorable for two significant reasons.

First was the heat. It was the hottest race I believe in the 32 year history of the race. It was 85 degrees at the top of Mt. Bachelor and the snow was very slushy. I learned a new term, our downhill skier called it a 'yard sale' as the slope was littered with skis and poles. At the transition from the downhill ski to the skate ski, I watched a poor young lady fall about 10 times in a 15-20 yard stretch!

The second was that yours truly blew the transition from the skate ski to the cycling (my event). I have never, ever missed a transition but I suppose their is a first time for everything. Our skier, when arriving at the transition and not seeing me, left the transition area to look for me. I must have missed him by no more than 5 minutes, and ended up waiting for him not knowing he had been there already. It blew our overall time, but I was pissed and rode very agressively to make up as much time as I could, even knowing that there was no way to recapture our estimated time. The anger and adrenaline gave me a great ride. I flew by the other cyclists on the course at the same time as me like a TDF rider on HGH.

It was 95 degrees at the finish line with no shade! After a few beers we were a team again, and all was forgiven. But I still feel bad!

I once was lost...

Feeling Lost? Find help here.

Another Oregon town is safe from...(read on)

My friend (anonymous) is a police captain in the Oregon town of (anonymous). Without further preamble let's dive into his account of a recent serious event. In his own words:

I thought I had a good grasp on the multitude of different law enforcment agencies in this country, but I was wrong. I was summoned into a briefing several weeks ago by the Feds. If you were to guess which Federal Agency would come calling to a local police department, you would guess the DEA, the FBI, maybe the CIA, or possibly the Secret Service.

It was none of these. This time the USDA, as in the United States Department of Agriculture, requested my presence. The..huh? What would they want with me? Aren't these the people who inspect fruit in California?

I was greeted by eight Federal Agents who had flown in from all parts of the country. The SAC (Special Agent in Charge) introduced himself with a gentle southern accent and handed me his prepared briefing agenda.

I couldn't help but notice the symbol on the first page. It was a cartoon character of a rooster wearing boxing gloves in a fighting stance, with a circle and slash through it. yep, I was about to learn all about Cock Fighting Law Enforcement.

As soon as the briefing started, it became clear that we were in the midst of a Federal Cock Fighting crackdown. The wanted to use our SWAT team to do the entry. The only problem was, Federal warrants have a 30 second rule. This means when doing a search, after you knock you have to wait 30 seconds before you enter. This might work with chickens, but in (anonymous) this gives the bad guys time to get their weapons loaded and aimed at the door.

Having this in mind, I told the Feds our SWAT team would spend our 30 seconds hiding behind our armored car.

The feds were interested in arresting one of our local "frequent flyers." That's a technical term for "repeat offender". This bad guy deals meth and had firearms ready the last time we did a search warrant at his house. I didn't see any chickens then.

I shared this information with the Feds. They looked at each other, then quickly waived the 30 second rule and requested we do the entry.

Good decision, I thought. The more I talked with these agents, the more I suspected their normal day was very different from mine.

One agent looked like the mom from the Brady Bunch. Another was a tiny Asian gal with a big smile who giggled a lot. The SAC looked like a Sears catalog model. Then there was the guy who looked like Adam Carolla and the woman sitting at the end of the table could have been Wynonna Judd. Orville Redenbacher, or his close relative, rounded out the crew.

We did the search at 5 AM before the roosters could wake up the bad guy. It went well, and (anonymous) is safe and chicken-free. Sears catalog models apparently make good SACs.

QOTD

From my friend Reed (superstar athlete):

"endurance training takes a long time"

Bumper Snicker

Real Life Test Answers

Some of the most brilliance in difficult tests is the is the interpretation of the question in a literal, wooden sense rather than the sense in which it was intended. Some of the images are a bit difficult to read, but gave me a good chuckle.

More dumb theology jokes

What did the Buddhist monk say to the hot dog vendor?

"make me one with everything"

(groan)

Dumb theology joke

Two friends walk into a McDonalds, one a Calvinist and one an Arminian. As they both gazed up at the menu the clerk asked, “may I help you?”


The Calvinist replied,

“I can’t choose, you choose for me”.

The Arminian said,

“Wow, so many choices!”.

Clever, I like it! Religious mailing lists.

I Joined a Mailing List

~ by Michael Rew ~

I joined a Calvinist mailing list I was predestined to join;

an Arminian mailing list because I could;

a dispensationalist mailing list because the time had come;

a Torah-observant mailing list because I should;

an Anabaptist mailing list because I could not fight it;

a Creationist mailing list, and it was good;

an intercessory mailing list after I prayed about it;

and a prophetic mailing list. I knew I would!

I joined a Sabbatarian mailing list on Friday night,Saturday night, and Sunday night, to cover every base;

got caught up in a pre-tribulation Rapture mailing list and in a post-tribulation mailing list, just in case.

I joined a Catholic mailing list that was a piece of work;

an evangelical mailing list by God’s grace alone;

a contemporary mailing list to see what was happening;

a traditional mailing list of which I had known;

a fivefold ministry mailing list so I would be equipped to open up and operate a mailing list of my own;

an interdenominational mailing list if I missed anything else;

and a cessationist mailing list.


Then I was done.

Triathlon Training - not for sissies

When I compete in a triathlon I put myself in the back of the swim. In the middle of the pack I've been hit, kicked and had people swim up on my back. I've hit people, kicked people and swam up on people's backs. I kicked a guy hard enough in the face once that I gave him a bloody nose, true story. We both stopped and I asked if he was alright. He said he was and we both continued the swim. Good thing it wasn't an ocean swim where the sharks might circle!

Anyway, I thought this was a superb way to train for the swim:

This T-shirt Rocks

Ah yes, I love t-shirts. They have to be really cool. I really like this t-shirt because of my unending fascination and study of Calvinism and Arminianism theology. And that it's just eclectic enough that some people won't get it! And the ones that will might be upset. I might just have to buy one....

Big, Bigger, BIGGEST

I really like fabrication shows like Monster Garage, Orange County Choppers, American Chopper, American Hot Rod, etc. I really really like when they make 'big' things, and although neither of these originated on the aforementioned shows these are some of the biggest scratch built creations I've ever seen. The age old question has been answered: Just because you could, doesn't mean you should. Yes, you should. And I want one.

Maybe for Christmas this year, Janet & Mom - it's not too late to start saving now....

A really big motorcycle

Let's start with an aircraft engine. We'll take two cylinders from a radial engine, and mate them to a custom crank. Oh, and did I mention the displacment of 410 cubic inches? In a motorcycle? To inject a little bit of perspective into this scenario, my 1967 Camaro had one of the finest motors Detroit ever built, the 327 cubic inch Chevy small block. Even with 50 series tires I could smoke those skins. So, we have 83 more cubic inches and approximately 2,000 less pounds curb weight. Unfortunately I could not find if the builder, Clemens Leonhardt; ever finished his monster creation. Let the pictures however speak for themselves the rest of this narrative:

A really big car

What would you do if you had a 1941 Seagraves hook and ladder fire truck? Well of course you would create a sports car out of it, wouldn't you? That's what Michael Leeds did. You would chop, section and box the frame. You would hand craft the body and fenders. You would preserve the original front grill. But, you would still have 9,600 pounds of car to lug around.

Not to worry, gentle reader. You would restore the original 980 cubic inch V-12 engine. Because it was built to idle for long periods at fire scenes, the engine has redundant iginition - 2 plugs per cylinder, two distributors and four coils. The pan holds 25 quarts of oil! The original Easton four speed transmission is used. Known as a 'crash box' as most trannys of the day did not have synchronization, the lost art of double clutching is used.

Behold, Big Bertha:

Patty "snowshoe" Sturdevant

So check it out - Patty decides to do a snowshoe race. It's her first one, the White River 8K race on January 20 of this year. Patty's a natural athlete, and of course - in her first snowshoe race - she gets 11th overall, out of 103 participants! As reported in Snowshoe Magazine :

Patty Sturdevant, Portland, took third in the overall women’s class at 54:18, missing by just six seconds a 10th place overall that Scott Hull, Portland, claimed.

Well done Patty! Well, it turned out that she qualified for the Nationals! How awesome is that? How could she not go? How could she not buy special titanium racing snowshoes for the event? Wouldn't you? Of course you would.

In a bit of pontification, Phillip Gary Smith writes:

A glorious and glamorous day dawned at the Snowbasin Resort, Ogden, Utah, for the running of the 2008 United States Snowshoe Association’s Eighth annual PowerSox Championships. In a setting destined to be one of the all time greats for these races, and accommodations to match, racers from 19 states gathered to do battle on these pristine slopes.

Patty traveled with her good friend Myra, who took 8th - overall! Congratulations to Myra. Patty did awesome, again we are looking at her SECOND snowshoe race ever in her life! And she takes SECOND place in her age group in the Nationals, and earned her silver medal! It's enough to make you take a SECOND look (ok, sorry) at her results:

Patty, we are all very proud and happy for you. We'll be looking for you at the 2009 Nationals!

Highway Haiku

White porsche drives us crazy,
cutting off car in front of me,
Holy Cow! Tail lights flash.

Sunny morning - Joy!
But, going to work now - Blecch.
Hopeful for fast day.

Stuck at on ramp light
Dog in car next to me barks
Barking back is fun.

Dream Diary

I dreamt that we lived in exclusive suburban neighborhood street, and the street was carpeted with a fine layer of leaves. I decided to sweep up some of the leaves in front of our house. I was using a tiny whisk broom. Whisk, whisk, whisk I went. Soon I had our area cleared. I decided I would go up the street. There I was, on my hands and knees; whisk whisk whisk.

Soon I was in front of a neighbor's house. She saw me and came out very offended, turns out she likes the leaves in front of her house. A mild verbal fracas ensued, but then she said she was sorry. I offered to take her trash out to the curb, and she was pleased and we both were on a good footing again.

She said that she was having a party in the back of the house and asked me to join. I said that I'd be delighted. She headed around back. I suppose I was still a bit irritated over the incident, and I put some 3o weight (it might have been 10-40) engine oil on her fenceposts.

There were about 15-20 people or so in the back, a radio was playing and the BBQ was going. Laughing, drinking, talking in the sunshine - it was a wonderful scene.

I asked if I could use her bathroom, and she invited me to use the master bath upstairs, she had just remodeled it. It was a beautiful facility, and since I was sweaty and dirty from whisking I decided to take a bath. I cleaned up, toweled off, put my clothes back on and rejoined the party.

Suddenly, some of the guests began talking into their sleeves! They were undercover CIA and FBI agents! Apparently, there was a plot to overthrow the government or something along those lines. Undercover agents disguised as suburban housewives and weekend warrior dads jumped over the fences from adjoining yards, soon there was like 50 agents crammed into the now-tiny back yard.

Suddenly, water began flowing out of the house, onto a balcony and then to the ground. I had neglected to turn off the bathtub faucet! The confusion caused the agents to all start running around.

And then I woke up.

Dream Diary

I dreamt I was riding a motorcycle around in Los Angeles. It was like a big Harley, but with a much bigger engine. Basically, it was all engine that dwarfed the tires. Kind of like the picture, which may have been the inspiration.

I rode the motorcycle to a garage sale, where I purchased a set of used, tri-focal wrap around UV protection sport sunglasses. They were very cool and I put them on and rode the motorcycle around some more.

It turned out that I had borrowed the motorcycle from a friend named Gayle. She's a really funny person and every time we see her there is something that we laugh about. I had filled the tank for her her, and tried to offer her some money for lending the bike to me, but she refused. So, I went to Costco and bought her some Prilosec. Don't know why, there was no discussion about heartburn or anything with her! I just thought it was a meaningful gift. What-ever!

Then, I was hanging out at a beach, I think it was Huntington Beach. Suddenly, the sky darkened and enormous lightning bolts crashed into the ocean. The crack of the thunder shook me to my core, my internal organs were all vibrating from the violent sound and made me nauseous.

Then gigantic somethings were falling into the ocean. I could not discern exactly what they were, perhaps hailstones or rocks as big as dump trucks like the picture. Again, whatever they were, were indecipherable to me. However, imagine if that truck fell from 500 feet into the ocean. Can you imagine the splash it would make? That's what it was like.

We all started screaming and running from the beach. There was a boardwalk, actually a paved bike/walking path that paralleled the shore. There were bunk beds, like camping cots only stacked 8 high. The people in the beds were being thrown out onto the ground.

As I ran, I began to see shiny objects on the ground. They were syringes, with big old honkin' needles. As I ran I tried to sidestep them.

And then I woke up.

Roll out the red carpet....

FLASH! Oh sorry, I...FLASH! FLASH! Darn paparazzi. Last fall I wrote here and here and here and here about my journey out of anonymity to superstardom. Alas, the road was hard with long hours, bad food and irritable art directors, set designers, focus puller, clapper loaders, key grips and best boys. At times my entourage was emotionally overwhelming.

Pardon me, I should not trouble you with the personal issues I face as a movie star. I shall not bloviate any longer and admit to you that yes - at long last I have seen my face in a movie. I saw the handsome, svelte young man that every girl swoons for and every guy is jealous of. Then, I saw myself next to him! Ha ha ha.



But seriously now - Into the Wild is out on DVD now, and you can see my mug on the big screen (or little screen if you're watching it on your iPod). I'm in the second scene (the college graduation). In the picture above which I snipped off of the web, you see the focus on William Hurt and Marcia Gay Harden. Look over Marcia's shoulder and there is a big guy with his hands together in mid-clap. Next to him is a woman with glasses. Next to her is something that looks like a coconut. That's my head.

In the movie, the camera pans and then zooms on to William Hurt and Marcia Gay Harden. You can see me clearly, I've got a white blazer on. Ooops, my cell phone is ringing....sorry, it's my agent - gotta run.

Autographs provided upon request.

It's a small world, after all....

When I was a kid at Disneyland, we were in the "Small World" ride when the soundtrack broke. All of the little mechanical puppets were squeaking, clanking and making robotic noises that were usually masked by the music. It was kind of a surreal experience.

Just like last Thursday evening at a wedding rehearsal. The bride introduced me to her father, and we had this odd, twilight zone thing going on. Finally he said "I know you from somewhere" and I agreed. We started going through the list - the gym, church, laundromat, favorite restaurant, college?!?

Finally he asked if I was a runner. Yep, I replied. He hit it - turns out we were on a Hood to Coast team we approximated at about 10-11 years ago! Hadn't see him since. But wait - it gets a little weirder. I love to read, and when I traveled heavily I would cart 2-3 big books around in my bag. One of my favorites was (is) a double volumn by Tom Wolfe that includes the Bonfire of the Vanities, and the Right Stuff.

For years, I have lugged that book around - from Minneapolis to the city of Mt. Shasta, from L.A. to Lahaina - I read it here there and everywhere. Why is this relevant? In that book - again for years now - I have a business card that I use as a bookmark. It was the team captain of our team that year.

Kind of weird. OK, maybe not so much. But it is a small world after all.

Highway Haiku

Starbucks here I come
Caffeine eases the commute
Traffic Jam? No prob!

Vrooom! We go faster!
Few cars in front today - yay!
Home - won't be long now

Books - here there and everywhere

Isn't this just the coolest thing you have ever seen?

Look very carefully at the picture. It's kind of dizzying but what you are seeing is a staircase leading to a door at the bottom. The owners of this apartment had a problem, similar to what I and every bibliophile face.

Books. Lots of books. Lots and lots and lots of books. Drives my wife cRaZy. I could be stranded in a desert dying of thirst, and drag my dehydrated carcass to a roadside lemonade stand...and ask if they have any bestsellers.

Well, the owners of this apartment had a novel (ha ha pun intended) way to resolve their issue. They designed in a hidden and seldom used back stairwell to an upper loft, a means of arranging for their treasures to remain neatly organized.

Sherry won't make our bed anymore. It's not her fault, she's by no means lazy. I have so many books and magazines piled up on my side of the bed it is a slippery slope that more than once has caused her to stumble. I now make the bed. And I slip and stumble.

I love it. Sherry hates it. I tell her it would be a great way to open up a new....wait for it....CHAPTER in our lives! Get it? Ha ha ha I crack myself up.

Motorcycle Memories

I had come across the picture below some time ago and filed it away. Recently on Wayne's blog he posted an entry about his affection for motorcycles (I had forgotten about that Wayne). Take a close look at his former commuter bike. I think it's a Kawasaki, and I'm going to guess that is a late 70's or early 80's bike.

My bike was a Yamaha Enduro, one of the very first off-road models that spawned the dirt bike era. Older than Wayne's bike, it was probably a 1971 or 72 model. Although the bike in this picture is a 250, my bike was an odd (by today's standards) 175 cubic centimeters.

How I loved that motorcycle!

It looked exactly like the picture above. It is amazing how seeing the picture aroused 30 year old memories in a tactile way. I can feel the compression as I kick start it, I can remember how the pad was so worn that I tore it off and had to be careful not to let me foot slip off.

Look at that travel on the rear shocks! I remember one day taking the seat off and going for a ride to 'force' the skills of riding standing up on the pegs. I remember how my butt hurt when I was slammed down into the frame sans seat. Ah, the foolishness of youth.

I remember riding along and seeing two girls. Wanting to impress them I sailed off a fairly large jump, attempted to do a table top cross up before 'table top' was even vogue, and crashed miserable in front of them. Thankfully, only my ego was seriously busted up.

I remember taking off the exhaust pipe heat shield, thinking it looked dorky. I remember putting the exhaust pipe heat shield back on when it burned my leg.

I remember tinkering with the Mikuni carburetor. I remember spending a lot of tinkering trying to get it running right again.

I remember many times of stalling the engine riding through mud and water, and taking off the magneto cover and drying out the points. I remember being stuck in mud, using a stick and leaves to poke out the accumulation of mud in the rear tire and wiping the chain, and watching my mom drive up on the adjacent road, look at me...and keep on driving!

I remember learning how to pop a wheelie, then ride a wheelie. I was actually good at wheelies.

I remember showing off for some friends, pulling a textbook berm shot, and then crashing into the rear wall of John's market (Lakehead, CA). I remember having to pay John back for the hole I put in his wall. I also remember having to pay to have the forks straightened with a hydraulic press.

How I loved that motorcycle!

Name these guys and win a prize.

This picture is significant for two reasons. The first reason is that one of these gentlemen greatly influenced my life. The other is that this picture was taken in the year I was born, 1957. Who do you think they are?

Hint: The picture was taken in Spain, and their last names both start with "D".

I'm not sure yet what the prize might be. Maybe a rock, or a leaf. I'm going green. Think real hard before you scroll down for the answer.

Answer: The two men are Walt Disney and Salvador Dali. Growing up in Southern California, some of my fondest and earliest memories were going to Disneyland. Mom and Dad would bundle us up in the car, get us all excited about going to Disneyland. Dad would then drive around until he found a burned down warehouse and exclaim "oh my gosh kids! Disneyland burned down!" He would drive us home as we cried.

Seriously though, the Magic Kingdom visits were are wonderful part of growing up. I still tear up remembering the Matterhorn emerging from the smog. Or maybe it was just the smog that made me tear up. I would have loved to hear what Walt and Salvador talked about!

Dream Diary #6

I dreamt that Sherry and I were with my family. We had our bikes, and told the fam that we were going on a bike ride. Then, I was in a garage (I think it was ours but I'm not sure) working on a motorcycle engine. I had received it in a box (known by the colloquial term as a basket case) and was rebuilding it. It was a four stroke engine and I couldn't find the valve lifters. I finally found them and they were caked with old grease. I began to clean them when dad came into the garage.

"I'm going on the bike ride with you", he said. He had gone to a bike shop and purchased an unusual bike. The bottom of the fork split into a wishbone, and there were two small tires instead of one. The tires were not arranged in a tricycle fashion, i.e. next to each other but inline with each other (picture a rollerblade). It was very strange looking. Then mom came into the garage and said she had bought a bike. Then my brother came into the garage, he already had a bike.

I was pleased to have a garage full of bikes, even if they weren't all mine. I continued to work on the engine as everyone got ready for the ride.

Then, I was driving my truck. Into an apartment complex. On the walkways. In my dream I had done this before, it was a shortcut to the parking lot that I used. But the walkways became narrower and narrower, and soon I could not go forward and had to reverse my way out. As I passed one apartment there was a guy packing up. I knew him and I can't remember the reason that he was leaving but it was a sad event.

Next, I was still trying to get into the parking lot. Having failed at the walking paths, I used a neighbor's driveway. It was a huge expensive house with a huge driveway big enough that some cars were using it as a racetrack. So there I was, in my truck; driving on a stranger's driveway in the middle of a race.

Then I woke up.

Everybody's gone surfing, surfing USA

Honolulu, Waikiki Beach c. 1989

I fought my way to the surface, gagging and spitting seawater. Rather than riding the wave, you might say that the wave rode me - pounding me down into the ocean where the little fishies live. I fell into a pattern - I would wait for a nice juicy wave, and then paddle furiously as it lifted me into the air and then I just floated off the backside, sitting idle as the other surfers caught a nice ride in. Or, I would see the wave, paddle furiously and have it come crashing down over me.

Once in a while I would actually "catch the wave" and enjoy a brief (less than 15 seconds) moment of sheer liquid bliss. And then fall, the tether would smack the board against my head and we would start the cycle over again. I was grateful that my friend lent me his board, but I did not realize that it was a competition board made for true surfers and not a poser like me.

Lahaina, Maui 2007

The sensation made me giddy - gliding atop the water, the slightest forward movement made the board go faster, shifting my weight and using my back foot to steer the board I managed to barely avoid the seawall as onlookers ran for safety and popped out their cell phones, fingers poised to dial 9-1-1.

I was surfing! I WAS SURFING! Let's look at the backstory. First, I'll admit to being a bit clumsy. OK, uncoordinated. Well, to tell the truth I was always the last kid picked for a team in school - "I'll take Henry" "I'll take Pete" "I'll take Dave's Mom" "I'll take Dave's sister" " OK, I'll take Dave". So, to surf (an action requiring a modicum of balance and coordination) was quite an accomplishment for me.

It started with a guarantee - I would get up on the board on the first lesson. No way! How could I NOT sign up and take a surf lesson! Could I change the past and not have a surf lesson turn into a surf "lesion"?!? I could. I plunked down my hard earned cash and began the lesson.

We had a small group of about 10 people. Our instructor Kenny explained how it would work - with our boards still on the sand we practiced centering, getting upright and how to steer. When we went into the water and started paddling I could appreciate how much work it is paddling out to the waves. My shoulders were sore after about 20 minutes! It was hard enough work that one couple abandoned the lesson just because of that.

It took a few times, but I did get up! It might have had something to do with the training, but maybe more that the board was long enough to land an F-18 on (short board = young crazy kids, long board = old crazy men). I began to exercise a small amount of confidence, and soon Kenny said "hey Dave, you want to go ride some bigger waves?" I looked at him and snorted "sha, Eddie would go!"

He thought that my show of bravado was hilarious, and said my new name was Big Wave Dave. I revel in the glory of my accomplishment. Look at how big this wave was!