I'm so embarrassed

My friend Jim turned 50. We had a big bash at his house, and theme was decorate your own cupcake. That was somewhat incongruous as cupcakes were consumed with beer, whiskey, vodka and oyster shooters. But hey, it was Jim's party!

I was shopping for a card that in a friendly jesting way would joke about turning 50. I found a card that had a "you know are are fifty when..." theme. The very first item was this:

"You know you are fifty when you sing along to the elevator music."

Here comes the confession that led to a feeling of embarrassement: Earlier I had done some shopping at Albertson's. The muzak flowed unnoticed in the background, until suddenly - out of the speakers came the opening notes of "Waiting for a star to fall". Boy met girl in 1988, and now Boy meets Girl all over again. The saxophone prelude began, and my palms began to sweat as I was tempted to grab a bottle of shampoo and belt out the lyrics. After all, it may be Joe Albertson's supermarket but the singing aisle is mine (to make a very bad pun on a marketing jingle that most of you probably don't remember).

Anyway, after making my purchases I rushed home to find and download the song. Alas! All I could find was a karaoke version. Not to be deterred, I found the lyrics and sang along as loud as I could. The cat began to hiss, the dog whimpered, the fish in the aquarium hid and I thanked God that Sherry was not home.

Fifty is only a year away for me, and already I'm succumbing to elevator music. Sigh.

Going for Guinness

Ha! You thought this post was about beer, didn't you? Nay friends, we are about to embark on a journey into the Guinness Book of World Records. As reported in Time magazine (November 20) by Carolyn Sayre:

"Call them crazy, but there's a group of very special people who have something you probably don't: a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records."

Now, although I've reached the heights of achieving multiple lofty goals, sunken in the valleys of committing repeated heinous social blunders; never have I been graced with the wreath of a world record. But Paul has.

Paul is a guy with multi-faceted talents. He's creative: he once helped to orchestrate an amazing sight, walking through nightime woods whipping a glow stick around with which the end had been cut off. We wandered through the blackness where a tunnel of soft illumination decorated trees, shrubs, and the floor of the woods in a stunning visual treat. Paul is also smart: he sells software. Paul also is a skilled footbag enthusiast. Let's let him explain how it works:

The actual footbag (aka Hacky Sack) record is called “10-minute timed one-pass.”

You get 10 minutes to get as many kicks, back and forth, as you can. (To break this record, you can’t take two kicks in a row; neither can the bag touch you above the waist). To be a world record, it must be “drop-less.” I.e. you can’t drop it, and pick it up, and keep going. Further, even if you surpassed the record in less then 10 minutes without dropping, then dropped before the 10 minutes were completed, the record would not be recognized. You only get two attempts at a World Footbag Association event (the sanctioning organization for the sport.) These are the same guidelines that Guinness World Records requires we follow.

In 90 degree heat on a concret surface the attempt began. About 7 minutes in, they dropped. Well, now it was time for the second - and final - attempt. At about 4 minutes into it,

This Happened.

No way! How could that have happened? Since they were already set up, they decided to start again and then appeal to the powers that be that a third attempt was justified due to interference. Although there a few bobbles, at the ten minute mark the unofficial count was 1,414 - handily beating the former record of 1,327!

They were granted the exception, and through an unofficial confirmation from Guinness were informed that they would obtain the record. In a few weeks, an official certificate will come to validate the confirmation.

Very cool!

Menu-Driven Prayer

I love this cartoon (Pearls before Swine) and the crocs are my favorite characters:


It illustrates a paradigm that I have unfortunately fallen into, that of God like a big "sugar daddy in the sky" waiting to bestow us with blessings as we submit our prayers like a list to him. Sherry and I try (and most mornings are successful) to prayer together every day and lately have realized that it's become mostly all about us. We ask prayers that for the most part self centered.

It's like looking over menu options and choosing or discarding like this:

Let's see, I'll have the appetizer of have a quick commute today. For the main course I'd like a big portion of prosperity, served with a side of mashed enemies. Please hold any illness, but could I also get some nice weather on the side please? For dessert, let's see - can you show me the tray? OK, there - I'll settle on a nice tropical vacation.

Amen.

Obviously, you can see the problem here. To not be too facetious, we do pray for our friends, family, co-workers, church and other needs that our lives intersect with. But to a large part our (my) prayers have become rote. I don't think it's a matter of not knowing what do, it's putting it in action. I need to stop asking so much (particularly for me), and listening more.

Now that's a dessert!

Sherry holds a nutrition/weight loss class at our home on Wednesday nights. I usually sequester myself in my home office, and eavesdrop a little bit whilst consuming my frozen pizza. Sherry would kill me if she even knew I was considering the following "destination dessert" served at Le Pigeon (Portland, OR). Now if I can convince my doctor that I need to bring my cholesterol levels up a skosh:

"Young Turk chef Cabriel Rucker begins with a philosophy: desserts shouldn't be too sweet, and a few unexpected savory notes wouldn't hurt a bit. His corn bread, mixed with minced apricots, has a soft cakey crumble. The ample block arrives with creamy maple ice cream, all hit with little cubes of warm, salty bacon to get the melting process - and the adventure - going. All this, plus maple syrup drizzles plumped with bacon fat".

Yummy, I can almost feel the fat just sliding right into my cells with nary a word of introduction.

In Memorium: Mike Phillips

We have some good friends - Gene, Darryll Lynn, and Chelsea Phillips. For years I have been regaled with stories about Gene and his brothers, Jeff and Mike. They (Mike especially) have truly set the bar with some of the best practical jokes I've ever heard.

Mike had cancer, and passed away on October 16, 2006. Sherry and I only spent a little time with him, but even in his suffering he was a fun, likeable guy. Sherry loved him from the first time she met him.

Mike wanted to have his memorial service in Gene & Darryll's home, and I was privileged to attend. I knew Mike was big in radio, but I didn't know just what kind of an impact and influence he had. The service was attended by local radio personalities such as Tom Parker and Craig Walker. The room was filled with the rich deep voices of on-air personalities. A polycom was set up, and callers dialed in from Los Angeles, Hollywood, San Francisco and Seattle where Mike had made his mark. Pictures from his life had been put up on a wall, one was with Mike and Little Richard.

I felt a little bit out of place, kind of an outsider in the tightly knit group. The room was filled with industry lingo - like "air check" - apparently a critique of a jock's (for disk jockey) show, and "PD" for program director. The group recounted wonderful memories and anecdotes from a humble man who had risen through the ranks to become the vice president of NBC's FM radio programs. But Mike had invested much of his considerable talent to helping other people advance in their careers, it was never about him.

One of the funny anecdotes was how he had created a bowling game, where callers would dial in and guess how many of the pins had been dropped. Mike, the station manager and a sound technician went to a bowling alley and began to bowl. Mike told the sound tech that for the best effect, he would have to chase the ball down the alley whilst holding a microphone close the ball, skidding to a stop just before the ball crashed into the pins. Then, Mike said the tech would have to chase the ball for each combination of the ten pins dropping, for example a 3-pin drop, a 4-pin drop etc. He really didn't have to do that, Mike was just having fun watching the poor guy running up and down the alley!

Another time Mike printed off coupons for a restaurant, went in and gave every person dining a coupon for their meals. He was truly a funny guy who loved life, family and friends. Mike also was a Christian, and although he never engaged in 'Bible thumping" his faith was evident and clear to his friends.

If you would like, you can read about him here and here. You'll be glad you heard about a giant who was gentle, a man who left a mark on radio but more importantly left a mark on many people's hearts. I know you are with God and the angels now Mike, and I'm glad to have met you.

Book Review - The Book of Lost Things

The Sunday Oregonian of 10/15 had an article wherein two frightened Forest Service employees were so spooked by the sound of howling wolves that they radioed for a helicopter evacuation from the Sawtooth Wilderness in Utah last month. Although the wolves made no aggressive moves toward the pair and there are no documented cases of wolves attacking humans a helicopter was dispatched to retrive them. Steve Nadeau, wolf program supervisor with the Idaho Department of Fish & Game said of the incident:

"Holy moly - sounds to me like someone's read too many of Grimm's Fairy Tales."

Well, that's a good tag line of what the book is about. Author John Connolly gives us a kind of Grimm's Fairy Tales meets the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I'll admit that the reason I read the book is that I have 3 things in common with the protagonist:

1. We both share the name David
2. We both are afflicted with some sort of seizures (unclearly defined in the book).
3. We both love to read.
   

How can you not like a kid that enjoys dactyl iambic or elegiac pentameters? Set in England in the days of World War II, the book begins with the death of his mother and his father's eventual remarriage impacted David greatly. Clashes quickly ensued with David's new stepmother as they sold their home and moved in with her.

Prior to the remarriage and move strange events began to happen to David. His mother's favorite books, fictional stories of "knights and soldiers, of dragons and sea beasts, folk tales and fairy tales" took an anthropomorphic qualities as they began to talk to him, "softly at first and then louder and more compellingly." Those events then led to another:

"That was when the trouble started. That was when the bad things came. That was when the Crooked Man began to appear to David."

Right from the start, the malignant entity David called the Crooked Man began his troubling stalking and evil influence upon David. A terrifying crash of a shot down Nazi bomber thrust David into another world, an alternate reality; where the fairy tales and his mother's books were now invested with life.

Like much fiction the book borrows from Christian themes, but clearly does not seem to advocate Christianity. There is the Woodsman, a type of Christ. There is the Crooked Man, a type of Satan. There are the wolf/man hybrids, a type of demons.

The wolf-man hybrids constantly stalk and threaten other creatures in the alternate world that David now finds himself a part of. Classic satanic temptations are proffered:

"...give him (David) to us and we will offer him the protection of the pack. But the wolf-man's eyes gave the lie to it's words, for everything about them spoke of hunger and want"

This imagery could have been lifted right from Genesis 4:7 where God, speaking to Cain; says that "...sin is crouching at the door:, and its desire is for you...". The Hebrew word for desire in that passage is a word picture of a salivating, barely restrained savage beast with its fangs bared and muscles in tension ready to spring upon its prey and rip it to shreds.

Another Biblical allusion is found in the revealed belief of the "...Crooked Man that whatever evil lay in men was there from the moment of their conception." and "No one can make you do evil. You had evil inside you, and you indulged it." An echo of Romans 5:12 is heard: "Therefore, just as through one man (Adam) sin entered into the world, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men, because all sinned...".

The book discloses some of the great questions of Christianity that are difficult to answer. In reference to his mother's death David thinks of "...listening to the priest talking of God and how much He loved His people. He (David) had found it to equate the priest's God with the one who had left his mother to die slowly and painfully."

I'll admit that I became a bit bored as David's journey in the latter part flatlined for me, and I was tempted to give it a grade of D+. Although there was some interesting imagery presented I began to lose interest However, I was pleasantly pleased with the ending and some of the twists, and how the ending tied the whole tale together. Although not a great book, it became a good book. I struggled a little with vacillating between a C to a B, here's my conclusion:

Final Grade: B minus.

Lights - Camera - ACTION! - Part Four

They're here, they're there, they're everywhere. It's difficult living this life. Just this morning as I was leaving for work in the pre-dawn I saw movement in the shadows, then like popcorn bursting out of it's microwave bag, the light of flashbulbs lit up the day.

Paparrazi. Those camera-wielding, arrogant, rude, prying, meddlesome miscreants - oh, the price my neighbors pay. Not me, it's all part of the daily ritual now. But it does make me feel bad for my neighbors, friends and co-workers. Like mosquitoes to blood, I cannot get away from them. Pushing, shoving, shushing and non-loving I elbowed my way through the crowd to my awaiting limo. Settling and sighing into the plush heated leather seats, my driver greeted me with a Starbucks venti no whip non fat extra hot raspberry mocha and off we went to a day in the life of a movie star.

Today's agenda included shopping for a new home befitting my status. We drove down to a posh suburb of Portland, Lake Oswego where many affluent people reside. As we looked, I became more and more discouraged looking at their piddly little houses. 20,000 square feet, 5 car garage, 9 bathrooms, separate living quarters for the cook, maid and gardner, olympic size pool and a full basketball court? Puuuuleaaaze, boring houses perched on the lake not worthy of my residence. My neighbor Ron who is the best broker in the Pacific Northwest assisted me in securing a 35,000 square foot starter home in Bend, Oregon which will do for now. I bought a commuter jet to wisk me to exotic destinations, such as my winter home in Aruba. Well, let me continue with my day of filming.

Quiet on the set

I expected to hear those words, but there was a different chain of commands that led to the actual filming. Decked out with my college graduation audience member duds, we headed out to the set. Rows of chairs were arranged to face a platform set up to be a commencement area. Probably 150 graduates were seated, and there were some extras that were faculty up on the platform. An A.D. (assistant director, of which there seemed to be about half a dozen) waded through the audience with a bucket, handing out old beat up cameras without film but with fresh batteries so we could take pictures of our 'loved ones'.

Once we were arranged, the filming began. There seems to be a hierarchy with directors. Sean Penn is THE director, then there was a guy who seemed to be the second in the chain, and then as mentioned above some underlings. I'll call the second guy "Number Two". The actual filming took place like this:

1. "Roll Sound" - this was my favorite command. Number Two would shout 'roll sound' and then on the perimeter of the set (which was quite large because of the size of the commencement) underlings would echo from different positions, each with their own inflections - "ROooooOLLING sound", "roll sound", ROLLING SOUND, etc. It was cool.
2. "Background Action" - self explanatory, this was the cue for not the main action, but anything happening in support of the main action. Let's say that there was a couple of people who were to be walking across the back of the set just before the main action would begin. Background action would trigger them so that anything in the background would be natural and not starting at the same time as the main action.
3. "Action" - this was it, when everything happened. My part was a non-speaking part (surprise!) in which I merely smiled, acted natural (this was difficult for me on several levels) and waved and took pictures of my "niece" who was graduating (Jessica, I thought of you and you only have about 15 - 17 more years before you'll be walking across the stage).

Practice Makes Perfect

So for my day of filming I got $90.00 (for 12 hours of work). That included two hours of overtime. They gave out envelopes with $75.00 cash, then two more envelopes with $7.50 in cash. I am going to frame the four quarters as the first dollar I ever made in show biz. For the 12 hours of work, probably 4 hours were 'wasted' time doing nothing. When we were on the set filming a scene, filming the scene again, filming the scene again, filming the scene again - we must have done one scene (graduates throwing their caps into the air) 12 times (I swear I'm not making that up). I'm guessing that for 8 hours of actually being on the set, approximately 15 - 17 minutes of that will actually be in the movie.

You CAN Have Your Cake and Eat it Too

My wonderful colleague Claudia who sits in the cube next to me also was involved in the movie! They shot some of it in a house down the street from her, and gave her $500.00 to rent her driveway for four days to park some equipment in. One day, as filming ended they brought a big sheet cake over and asked if she wanted it. It was a birthday cake prop in the movie, a real cake! Claudia brought it in the next morning and said OK, now I've got a prop from the movie. How do you like them apples? I responded and said "the bar is set - are you in the movie?"? "No, but I have a cake". I responded again, "are you in the movie?" "No, but I have a cake that was in the movie.". We bantered like this for about 3 hours (well, maybe 15 minutes) and acknowledged that we both had a part (although I'll be in the movie!) in the film.

I Talked To a Movie Star

At one point during the lunch break I was walking over to some friends I had made and hung out with. I realized Sean Penn was walking toward me, and at our trajectory and pace he would pass behind me. Suddenly, he changed direction and he and I would intersect. It was kind of surreal, but I just said "hey, how's it going". He responded in like, and that was the end of our conversation. But I talked to a movie star.

The Best Part

At lunch, looking for a place to sit I saw a middle age guy (uh, like me I suppose!) sitting on some steps. He invited me up and as we ate we started conversing. It turned out that his wife had died four months ago during an epileptic seizure. Being an epileptic myself, I was able to project true empathy. As we spoke I felt that I should offer to pray for him. I asked if he would be open to a quick prayer, and he replied sure. I asked God to bring him peace, and to heal the hurt that was evident. Both he and I were moved. Who knows, although fame was stalking me perhaps this was the purpose that I ended up there, to bring first hand experience and comfort to a guy who clearly needed it.

Star Status at Home

Well, as I conclude these updates and launch into my new found fame I have to acknowledge the huge role that Sherry plays. Again, her encouragement and unflagging support have been a huge help in my transition from everyday office worker with my soul being sucked out by the system to a superstar in a constellation of star status compatriots.

Yes, I may be the star in the household - but Sherry is the heavens.

It's a mystery...

Sherry and I are dog lovers, and I've racked my brains to figure this out - I cannot come up with any logical reason. I can't even come up with an illogical reason. What would possess someone to do this to not one dog, but multiple owners with multiple dogs? What started it? What is the relationship here? I feel compelled, like matter being sucked into a black hole, to do this with Kadie.

Lights - Camera - ACTION! - Part Three

October 7, 2006. At 49 years of age I report to my first movie set. I try to appear nonchalant as I'm surrounded by a horde of hopefuls who secretly wish that they could be me. Little Davey Mundt, of humble beginnings, stepping on the first rung of the ladder to Hollywood.

The day started early as I was instructed to report at 7:00 AM. Not as early as some though, to stagger the check in process some people had been told to report at 4:00 AM. Yes, in the morning. One lady whom I fear had to many morning Mimosas that accelerated her star worship had brought a picture to give to Sean Penn. I was expecting maybe a picture of Portland or something like that, but it was of a guy with his head in his hands. Literally. His head had been severed from his body. I didn't get it then, I don't get it now.

Wardrobe

A bus transported us from Fred Meyer Corporate Headquarters to Reed College for our start time. In the instructions they had asked that both men and women not have facial piercings, non-natural hair colors and that women have clean, dry hair in rollers. No kidding. Although most of them didn't, there were enough rollers around that in the pre-dawn hour when I arrived it looked like Night of the Living Dead meets Cosmetology Schoolgirls Gone Wild. How bizarre.

We were taken to the campus and got in line for wardrobe. They gave me back the clothes that I had left with them for the wardrobe appointment, and guided us out to changing tents. The California production company must have assumed that morning chill would overcome us as they had portable heaters blowing into the tent and I think it was about 80 degrees. There were several men who were cast as faculty members, and it was hilarious to watch them struggle with the robes -"can you zip me up"? Heh heh heh.

The Zoo

After wardrobe we were herded like cattle into an auditorium. Because the scene was a college graduation there were about 600 people that showed up. A guy came to the front and gave us a few pointers about the day that went something like this:

1. "We'll go over to the set in approximately an hour and a half. Please be patient and try to have a good time."
2. "Please do not approach the main actors. They are generally friendly but let them, if they desire; approach you first."
3. "There will be a lot of waiting today. Be aware that long periods of time may go by as the set is being changed."
4. "Always follow the A.D.'s (assistant director) instructions.

Then we sat. And sat. And sat some more.

Makeup

I had decided to eschew makeup as my natural good looks have taken me far in life, but because I became bored I thought why not do the whole enchilada. I reported to makeup and the first question they asked was would I be willing to shave my beard (I had about 2 weeks scraggly growth). Sure, no problem - except the shaving station had some little styrofoam bowls, bottled water, cheap Barbasol shaving cream and even cheaper disposable razors. I thought I was going to rip the skin off of my face. It took four of those cheap razors to get me to a satisfactory stubble, baby soft smooth was out of the question.

I then entered a corridor with 10-12 makeup stations lining the walls. Just like you would expect, mirrors with the light bulbs all around them. A really nice makeup artist looked at me and sighed, how could she improve on perfection? Well, she got some of those little wedgie makeup sponges and dabbed stuff on my forehead and nose and then smoothed it out. I mentioned that the cheap razors had really irritated my face and did she have any lotion? Oh yeah, she put some awesome stuff on my cheeks and neck that really helped.

Now, I was ready for filming - whooops, my agent's on the line, I'll have to finish this post later...

Awww, cute lil' sayings

Dove (the chocolate manufacturer, not the soap people) makes these wonderful miniatures that are addictive. I have a friend who is quitting smoking, and she's 'on the patch'. I'm addicted to chocolate, and in like manner I've been securing a Hershey's Kiss to my arm everyday with duct tape. The chocolate is slowly absorbed through my skin and gives me that low level comfort throughout the day.

In my addiction one day I grabbed a few of those little Dove bite sized chocolates to tape to my arm. Unwrapping them I found that they have cute lil' sayings inside. I've been collecting them, following are some of the sayings, and updated with my translation/commentary:

Dove: Make your eyes twinkle.
Dave: Pass the Visine.

Dove: Naughty can be nice.
Dave: Naughty can also get you incarcerated.

Dove: Sit in your yard and watch the leaves fall.
Dave: They come off of the neighbor's tree. When he's not looking I chuck them back into his yard.

Dove: You're allowed to do nothing.
Dave: Talk to my boss.

Dove: The wind tells a story - listen.
Dave: Big deal. So do tornadoes and hurricanes, they just tell them louder.

Dove: Spend the day at a Harvest Festival.
Dave: Booooorrrrrrring.

Dove: Collect 10 different kinds of tree leaves.
Dave: And chuck them into the neighbor's yard also.

Dove: Promise yourself a smile today.
Dave: I don't feel like it.

Dove: Life is a painting, cover the entire canvas.
Dave: Au contraire, life is a highway and I'm gonna ride it all night long.

Dove: Make the most of an Indian Summer day.
Dave: Make the most of a Native American Summer day.

Dove: Look at the reflection of the leaves on your favorite pond.
Dave: I live in Portland, Oregon. There are no reflections because of the green scum.

Another Saturday night with the Mundts.

We have some friends who we adore. You are probably aware of Sherry and Dave's idosyncracies so we'll talk about our friends. Charlie's a cop with a sense of humor, Jill is his hyperactive ADD wife. Sometimes we get together after a Saturday night service at our church. One night, Charlie and Jill invited us to their house to play poker. Charlie and I made a beer run, and ran into someone in the store who he knows. We had fun telling his friend how, with six packs in our hands, we were on our way home from church and decided to stop for a few brewskies on our way to play poker . That's the kind of guy Charlie is, he loves God, loves to bust bad guys, and enjoys a nice beer once in a while. And he's promised to let me shoot a machine gun.

Steve is friendly and outgoing, a regal looking guy who will split your sides making you laugh with goofy faces and sounds, and Lauren is his wonderful wife who is going to get a medal in heaven for putting up with us all. We are all busy, and try to get together a few times a month, and do try to not let a month go by with at least one visit.

Well, Saturday night was our scheduled visit. The day was very busy for both Sherry (who was at work) and I. At one point in between chores and errands she had left a message on our voicemail with her new work number - I saved it to retrieve later and write down the number. I am bad when it comes to messages - too much experience with ramblers has led me to just save it to listen later if the point of the call is not revealed in the first 5-7 seconds.

As I had recalled, we were to show up at 6:00. Sherry was going to come home and get me and then off to the gathering we would go. At 6:30, I thought that Sherry had probably had a walk in appointment (she works at an assisted living community) wherein her time was invested. This had happened before and wasn't a cause for great concern. At 7:00 I thought she was closing the deal. At 7:30 I began to be concerned. At 7:45 I called her cell and left a message. At 8:00 I called Charlie and Jill, and left an urgent message. At 8:15 Sherry calls me and says those three little words that 10 years of marriage will bring:

WHERE ARE YOU?

Well hello, WHERE ARE YOU? I reply. Turns out that in the remainder of her message which I callously cut off, she had informed she was driving straight to the party after work and would see me there. A long pause ensued in which stupidity and shame saturated me like syrup on a waffle. I tried to mount a weak defense but Sherry's logic was inescapable - "I TOLD you in the message".

I hate voicemail.

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

Hood to Coast 2006 - it's 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.

I had been so excited about this event! I've ran H2C many times in the past, on different teams, in both vans (2 vans of 6 runners each will run in relay fashion the 197 mile course). You can read more about the race here.

Thursday night before the race started I was reminiscing with my neighbor Ron about some of the H2C stories we had. We laughed at some of the bizarre and funny stories that we have both experienced over the years on separate teams. We even talked about setting up a blog where other people could recount the plethora of preposterous ponderings presented through the years. Surely, it would create a library of writings that would almost require using the Dewey Decimal System to catalog the many experiences.

The weather forecast was perfect - warm but not too hot, no rain (I did run one Hood to Coast where it rained!). My training was almost perfect - I always think, I could have trained harder - and I could have. But, I had trained harder than the last several years. I was not in violation of Rule Number One (never do anything on the race that you haven't done in training).

Last year, in an ubelievable instance of bad timing; I had a seizure on the eve of Hood to Coast 2005. It hit me like a bolt of lightning, where one moment I felt an overwhelming nauseous out of body experience and the next moment I was semi-conscious in an ambulance heading for a hospital. I have vague recollections of asking the paramedic, and then the ER doctor; if I could run Hood to Coast the next day. Alas, the answer came back that this year I would sit it out. What a disappointment!

But that was in the past - it's now on to the future! I got up Friday morning and began packing my gear. One of my teammates called me, he had some butterflies as being a first timer the race can be intimidating. We chatted for a little bit and then I returned to packing. Things began to get a little hazy - as the song goes, "hangin' at the 7-11, things are getting hazy, working on a Slurpee and then your pushin' up daisies". I started to feel ill and then there is an undertimed period of time where I had....a seizure!

One year to the day (literally within an hour), on Hood to Coast weekend - AGAIN! This one was like rolling thunder, where my brain began to get foggy and the ill feeling continued into a nauseous state. I remember taking a shower and leaning against the wall for support. I remember trying to continue packing and wondering if I was having a seizure. I remember laying down on the couch at one point because I felt so bad. I remember Ron's wife Lori calling and ascertaining by my mumbling, pseudo-coherent replies that my status was in a precarious state, then sending Ron over to check on me. I remember violently throwing up into the kitchen sink after an uncontrollable urge to vomit hit me.

I think I seized when I was laying on the couch, shortly after I got up I realized that I had gnawed a huge gash into my tongue. Later in the day I found an unexplained bruise on my bicep, I would subsequently find that the epicenter of the bruise was exactly the height of the corner of our dresser, apparently I had stumbled into it at one point.

I began to feel better and then thought that I could compete. I joined up with the team, still feeling a bit woozy but beginning to come out of it. I was scheduled to run about 6:00 PM and continued to feel better as the day went on. Sherry was beside herself though and in no uncertain terms communicated her resistance to my plans. Additionally, a doctor friend also said no way. Faced now with a personal and a professional opinion that I should not run, with great reluctance and sadness I decided to drop out of the race. I had a few tears, kicked a fence a few times and then got over myself. I did feel I could continue in the van to support the team, but it seemed prudent to remove myself. In case there were further medical issues I did not want to jeopardize the entire team's efforts.

A trip to the neurologist revealed that, in his opinion; there was no relationship from last year to this year, that it was just an aberration of timing. He said that had he been sufficiently assured that I was hydrated, he would have let me run. The incident again reminded me and reinforced the fact that I am an epilectic (I think I'm still in denial) and that my lifestyle must conform accordingly. He made a slight adjustment to my medication and pronounced me fine to get back into the racing saddle.

Hood to Coast 2007 - here I come!

Road Bike Etiquette

In the December 2005 Bicycling Magazine, Brian Sloan in Texas asks Style Man (he knows everything. And knows it) the question "why is it wrong for roadies to wave to each other but okay for mountain bikers?".

Style Man replies in part that:

"This is the cruel, fundamental fact of road riding of which we dare not speak: The sport is founded on the principle that anyone who can be driven from the pack had no business being there in the first place."

He goes on to say that "...the only hand gesture that you deserve is a thwack to the back of your sniveling little head".

Style Man is wrong! Foul I cry! I'm not an off road rider so I cannot presume to speak to those cousins of mine, but I'll take Style Man to the mat about road riders. There is a subtle nuance that his egregiously egotistical effluent response overlooks.

Now, I should recognize that it is possible that Style Man resides and rides in locales such as New York or Los Angeles. Riders in different regions practice etiquette accordingly. In New York the acronym "NYC" is used by cyclists to reflect the "Not Your Cab" attitude. Adapted from the needs of the teeming masses to procure a taxi even at the expense of others, the NYC is a self-centered method of riding that says in effect "I don't care about you". In Los Angeles, cyclists have adapted the Orange County or "O.C." method of snubbing cyclists. The O.C. stands for "olfactory condemnation", or as it is interpreted "you stink".

Here in the Pacific Northwest we have a practice called approrpiately enough, the NW. The NW can be frequently seen, and it stands for "Nod and Wave". Let me qualify though - although we may be tree huggers, we're not cycling huggers. We don't hop off our bikes and embrace. After all, we are dedicated to riding hard, racing harder and relaxing heavily afterward. The NW is simply a slight nod of the head, which says I acknowledge you. The wave is not a garish parade wave with an elbow elbow wrist wrist twist, the hands stay on the bar with the thumb position unchanged, but the four fingers are barely perceptibly and quickly lifted off the bar and then the full grip is resumed.

Style Man, c'mon over to the Pacific Northwest and we'll teach you some manners! Brian, rest assured that roadies do express their affection here where the microbrew flows and it's OK to wear socks with your sandals.

Dave - 1, Osama Bin Laden - 0

Just when you thought life couldn't get any weirder, The Scotsman reports that Osama Bin Laden was obsessed with Whitney Houston and wanted to marry her. Kola Boof, a Sudanese poet and novelist, who says she was kept against her will as the terrorism mastermind's mistress in 1996, writes in her autobiography that he wanted to give the star a mansion and make her one of his wives.

"He said that he had a paramount desire for Whitney Houston and although he claimed music was evil, he spoke of some day spending vast amounts of money to go to America and try to arrange a meeting with the superstar," Boof writes. "He said he wanted to give Whitney Houston a mansion that he owned in a suburb of Khartoum. "He explained to me that to possess Whitney, he would be willing to break his colour rule and make her one of his wives."

Well, move over Osama - I'm one up on you. Years ago, when Whitney was at the height of her fame I went to a concert. Her popularity was peaking partly in part to the movie "The Bodyguard", and she was singing several of the hits from the movie.

At one point, she had finished a song, the applause was receding like the tide leaving the shore, and just as she took a breath to start her next song, in a moment of youthful foolishness I lept to my feet, cupped my hands and screamed as loud as I could "I loooove you Whitney".

Momentarily startled, she looked up into the nosebleeds where I was sitting, and said these words into the microphone - "Whitney loves you back". HA! Eat your heart out Osama, Whitney Houston told me SHE LOVES ME!

Dave - 1, Osama Bin Laden - loooooooooooooooser!

Vile Villianous Vials

Here's a weird thing...around North and Northwest Portland, vials have been seen fastened to street signs. No one is sure why they are there and what purpose they could have. Theories range from marking locations to buy crack (it's kind of hard to put up a billboard) to preparations for a terrorist attack on our fine city, to offbeat art.

Whatever it is, its got people talking. What's your theory?

More about Madonna!

Well, I guess she isn't all bad. Madonna now (according to the Scotsman.com) urges the (British) government to use a mystical Kabbalah fluid to clean up radioactive waste. Bravo for her! It's nice to see her using her influence for something other than mocking religion or making crummy music.

Apparently, the pop superstar is a keen follower of the Jewish spiritual movement which believes that water can receive magic healing powers through "meditations and the consciousness of sharing".

The article reports that "together with movie director husband Guy Ritchie, she has approached Downing Street, the Department of Trade and Industry and British Nuclear Fuels with the idea, and it is understood she was promoting a water-based solution that had allegedly proved successful in neutralising dangerous nuclear waste in Russia. "

I remain skeptical but I will ask- where can I buy some?!? This looks like a great detergent, garage floor cleaner, moss killer and paint remover all in one product. Cleans diaper stains, removes pigeon poop and neutralizes nuclear waste. Man, think of the infomercial you could do with that! And what about those tag lines:

1. "I got rid of Hezbollah with only a pint of Kabalah"
2. "A little Kabalah on my lawn just makes my weeds be gone"
3. "Difficult laundry directions I don't follow, when all I need is a splash of Kabalah!

Could Madonna Multi Level Marketing be far behind?

Puzzled, perplexed but not perturbed

She's at it again. The Material Girl, Madonna; offended all kinds of religious people of with her mock crucifixion of herself at a Rome concert near the Vatican. She managed to garner condemnation from Catholics, Jews, Muslims, Christians, both the Republican and Democratic parties, Hezbollah, the Boy Scouts of America and Mel Gibson.

Catholic Cardinal Ersilio Tonini called it "an act of open hostility", and the Arab Al Jazeerah network broadcast a missive from Osama Bin Laden in which he declared jihad against her (just kidding on that last one).

Well, here's why I am puzzled and perpexed but not perturbed - I think she doesn't understand what she is doing. Sure, I have no doubts that she is out for the shock factor, but that's getting a little tired.

Crucifixion was a particularly cruel method of capital punishment used by Rome. It should be noted that its origins were in ancient Persia, and that although culture usually associates crucifixion with Christ, he was one of many, many people who suffered its horrors.

Many Christians use the symbol of the cross to identify themselves, seen in jewelry, t-shirts, tattoos etc. The cross has also passed into mainstream culture where it has lost some of it's meaning and become a popular jewelry item void of a deeper meaning. To test my theory, a few days ago I was in Starbucks and the barista (they can charge more if they don't call the employee a server) was wearing a cross. I asked if she was a Christian, and she enthusiastically affirmed her relationship with Christ. OK, maybe the cross still carries more meaning than I thought!

Here's the thing though: the Bible is clear about the cross. In Hebrews 12:2 it reads "fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." In Galatians 3:13 we see that "Christ redeemed us from the curse of the Law, having become a curse for us--for it is written, " CURSED IS EVERYONE WHO HANGS ON A TREE" (a reference to the cross). My point is that I think the cross has lost some of its meaning over time.

Now, I have flirted with the idea of getting a tattoo, and in some fashion having a cross in it as a way of demonstrating my faith. But, here's the rub - as I mentioned above the cross was an institution of capital punishment. To be literal, it would be culturally relevant (as we don't crucify people anymore) to have a tattoo of a gas chamber, or to wear a little electric chair on a chain. See, it wasn't death that made the cross of Christ memorable - it was life. Because He rose from the dead, He conquered death itself.

I'm not anti-cross, and have no issue with someone wishing to identify themselves as a Christian doing it by wearing a cross. As the Bible says, the word of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God (1 Corinthians 1:18). I think though a more appropriate symbol though of Christianity might be an empty tomb. A lot of people were crucified, but only one rose from the dead.

Well, my rant is coming to a close - now what about Madonna? I'm puzzled and perplexed because she displays her naivete in a way that mocks everyone who was ever crucified, not just Christ. And even in doing that, judging by the picture she avails herself of a sanitized neon platform that she appears to be standing on, rather than having the splinters of rough wood shredding her back as she gasps in pain and slowly suffocates.

Here's my secret to not being perturbed - if she really wanted to mock Christianity, she would be performing from an empty grave, perhaps rolling a giant papier-mache boulder across the entrance where she like an effigy lay trapped inside. Now that, that might get me perturbed!

Felons on the Fones

Jim Croce must be turning over in his grave. Remember his song "Operator"? Here's a snippet of the lyrics:

Operator, well could you help me place this call?

See, the number on the matchbook is old and faded.

She's living in L. A. with my best old ex-friend Ray, A guy she said she knew well and sometimes hated.

Isn't that the way they say it goes?

Well, let's forget all that and give me the number if you can find it, So I can call just to tell 'em I’m fine and to show I've overcome the blow. I’ve learned to take it well -- I only wish my words could just convince myself that it just wasn't real, but that's not the way it feels

Well, if you live in Rome and happen to call for directory assistance, Italy's biggest phone operator (Telecom Italia) just might route your call to one of 24 assistants glued to a computer screen answering thousands of requests for phone numbers and addresses every day.

Oh, by the way did I mention that the operators are incarcerated in Rome's largest prison (the Rebibbia jail, a huge concrete block housing 1,600 inmates on the northern outskirts of Rome)?

Telecom's Chairman Marco Tronchetti Provera gushed as he toured the facility:

"This is a unique initiative in Europe and it helps the detainees get some work experience and prepare for when they'll get out of prison"

Gianluca Descenzo, who is serving a 13-year sentence for a drug-related murder, agrees. "It's good because people don't know who we are, so we don't feel like we are in a ghetto anymore," he told Reuters as he paused before taking another call.

The detainees get paid 12 cents ($0.15) per call answered and on a normal day each one of them deals with around 200 requests for information. "Jails should not only be a place for punishment. They need not be a permanent hell, they must also give opportunities to people," said Justice Minister Clemente Mastella as he visited the call-center.

Thankfully, Telecom says there is no security risk in having detainees consult a nationwide database of phone numbers and addresses. The prisoners cannot dial outside the jail and the company's computerized switchboard randomly directs each call to any one of Telecom's 45 call centers scattered across Italy.

No.Security.Risk.

Sign me, Skeptical in the States.

Highway Haiku

Steve has been writing some Haiku lately and it inspired me. Last Friday on my drive home through rush hour traffic that drove me from my usual mildly irritated state into near insanity as I averaged 5.7 mph for 13 miles.

I found though a place of placidity as I pondered possible points of light to guide my way home. I thus offer you my attempts at "Highway Haiku":

Weed grows on median

Choked by diesel fumes it asks

Is this all to life?

Yellow butterflies
flirting on freeway off ramp
Fly DHL trucks!

Lady in red car

what! changes top in traffic
shameless I tell you

Packet Pick-Up

Wow! Today was packet pickup for Hood to Coast. H2C is the world's longest relay race, right here in beautiful Oregon. 197.2 miles long, it starts at the top of Mt. Hood and the course winds it's way down through Boring, Gresham, Portland then out Highway 30 through Scapoose and then takes a left into the coast range. Traversing the range, the course drops the race down into Seaside where tired, fried, exhausted runners dance to Johnny Limbo and the Lugnuts. It's the 25 year annivesary of the race and is sure to be a bigger deal than ever.

Each team has 12 runners divvied up into two vans. Each runner runs a total of three legs, which vary anywhere in length from 4 miles to 7. So, the runners in van one run legs 1-6, then an exchange happens where van 2 then begins running and legs 7-12 are run. Then a transition again happens from van 2 back to van 1. Etc etc. We have an estimated time of about 30 hours to complete the course, which is pretty slow. However, we bagged a 9:45 AM start time so we should finish well in daylight. There's nothing more discouraging than finishing after dark!

We're at the stage in life where we recruit runners more for character than speed. When you're in a van for 30 hours with the same people, character flaws can magnify themselves like fingernails on a chalkboard. With 1,000 teams (12,000 runners - yes, TWELVE THOUSAND!) tensions can be exacerbated. Fortunately, we've never had any issues in our van but it's not totally uncommon to see a team unraveling somewhere on the course.

I've run Hood to Coast, hmmm - without counting my medals (everyone gets a medal and by golly we earn them!) I'm going to guess about 10 times, this may be my 11th time running. There's been a lot of fun memories through the years. Here's some of my favorites:

1. Once in the middle of the night as the van was moving someone noticed the door was ajar and fully opened, and then yanked the door shut. A little too hard. The safety glass shattered in an explosion of little glass pellets. I swear I thought we had been hit with a shotgun blast!
2. The time our friend who was a new Christian was eager to share her new faith and lifestyle. In her zeal she saw a guy screaming obscenities at his apparent girlfriend. Fired up, she yelled at him "hey you bleepin bleep, quit being a bleep and get off of your bleepity bleep bleep - don't you know that God loves you?" Got a good laugh out of that!
3. One of our runners happened to meet then governer John Kitzhaber on the course. They ran a few miles together and chatted, while Kitzhaber's bodyguard (who had a rather large fanny pack that looked like the kind they make to conceal a 9mm Glock) kept watch. Unbeknownst to Ray, Kitzhaber's security team had him take a detour off of one of the more vulnerable sections of the course. Ray's babbling away as Kitzhaber and crew slowly outpaced him and ran into the distance. Ray realized that he was off the course and lost! He had to stop at a house and get directions.
4. Out in the middle of the coast range early one morning some local dogs were happily astounded by the hundreds of runners and scores of vans along their otherwise deserted road. 3 or 4 dogs were shadowing the runners in joy and delight, but as they loped along the road they began blocking traffic. Vans started stacking up behind them while they cavorted around. Horns only intrigued them and drew them to the vans like fans to a beer vendor at a Blazers game (well, like Blazers players to beer vendors at their own games). Eventually the dogs mosied off but they had created a huge traffic jam.
5. It's not uncommon to see someone you know along the route, with an athletic community and that many runners chances are high. A few years ago at an exchange I'm looking for our runner and realized that I'm standing next to my next door neighbor!

Well, there's a lot more and I'll post after the race but back to packet pickup. It's a studied atmosphere of pre-race tension. Everyone tries to look nonchalant but here's what's really happening - everyone is checking each other out. How good of shape is that guy in? What pace does that gal run? I think I can beat that guy.

Not one to shrink from the concealed competition, as we waited for the doors to open and the packet distribution to begin, I stook slightly askew stance with one foot planted about 3 inches behind the other. I flexed my forward quadricep on my right leg, and then with my left rear calf put it into a position so that the calf turned into a cow. Then I started to cramp. Looking as casual as I could with beads of sweat I reversed the stance and and tried to look casual yet intimidating. Finally, to my great relief; they opened the door and let us in.

Most runners are beginning to carbo load, but for me - I'm starting to ibuprofen load!

New BBQ - and a show for the neighbors

My friend Reed read the account of Sherry and the raccoons (which is not, by the way; the name of a rock band). He felt compassion for us that in the heat of the warfare our little portable barbecue became the first casualty on the battlefield.

He and Andrea volunteered to donate their old one, as Andrea's mom had bought them a new incredible unit. I tell you, their new BBQ is as big as an Austin Mini Cooper. It has dual burner rotisserie overdrive, and temperature contolled sensors for the auto hamburger patty flipping. Rather than taking a few minutes to warm up, there is a pre-heat valve from which demilitarized napalm is used as a starting agent. Whooosh! Yeah, underneath that brushed aluminum finish lies a veritable volcano of vittle cooking vitality.

Well, I digress - I loaded up the unit and headed home. And got lost. They live exactly 3 miles from us, but there are a few turn right here, left here, and then turn left again at the house that used to be painted yellow (crickets chirping). Eventually, by following the path of the sun as it lazily sank to the horizon, and with the help of a homemade sextant that I made from popsicle sticks I was able to make it home.

Backing into the driveway, I saw that Sherry wasn't home. I really wanted to get the grill out of the truck, but it was pretty awkward - not really heavy, but not conducive to being taken out of the back of a relatively high pickup. I'm guessing it weighs maybe 60 pounds. So, I positioned my hands underneath the center, and using my shoulders and biceps picked it up with my hands supinated - kind of like you might carry an armful of folded towels.

Hey - this isn't so bad! I can do this. I simply turned around and went to set it on the driveway. Well, since I had it so high the center of gravity was just a bit tricky. Nothing I couldn't handle but just a bit of help was needed. Therefore, I leaned it oh so slightly against my chest as I began to set it down. With just the lightest brush on my t-shirt it began it's descent.

As it moved downward though it hooked the athletic shorts I was wearing. Oh so gently it began dragging my shorts down. I froze for a moment but realized that now the center of gravity was low enough that I really didn't want to pick it upward. I realized that my truck was blocking most of the neighbor's view, so I allowed the downward movement to continue to disrobe me in my driveway. It was mere seconds where the release of the BBQ allowed me to hoist up the shorts. Although for a brief moment there might have been just a bit of a full moon, no lasting images were imprinted on any of my neighbor's impressionable minds. I hope.

And now I'm looking forward to some tasty barbecue!