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!

Beasts in the Night

Recently, while surfing for a few programs to record on DVR I saw that an episode of "The Night Stalker" was being aired. I remember enjoying this show when I was a teenager, it was kind of an early prototype of the X-Files. Rather than being a boring, monotonous figure like Mulder (even the name sounds bland), Carl Kolchak was a reporter of many depths exploring unexplainable events. Well, the show was an updated remakes of the original, but the pilot show that I recorded was about beasts in the night. And it was pretty good!

We had a bout with beasts ourselves in the middle of the night last week. Sherry had gotten up to let Mr. Cash (the kitty with no relation to Johnny) out, and apparently there were a few raccoons reconnoitering our residence. Suddenly, Kadie (the treasured family dog) became aware of the little beasts and charged out the door snarling and growling.

I was fast asleep when like the song goes "up on the rooftop there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter". I awoke to hear Sherry screeaaaaming, the dog snarling, and a big old fight going on. We live in a tri-level home, and I bolted out of bed like a duck on a June bug. Running down to the back porch, there was this incredible racket as Kadie and the raccoon(s?) were locked in full battle. I couldn't see a thing, and then remembered that in my haste I had forgotten my glasses. I ran back upstairs and got my glasses, then ran back down to the backyard. By that time the war had moved to the side of the house, and Sherry yelled for me to open the garage door. I ran back into the house, down the stairs to the first floor tripping on the last step (thankfully the last step) and stubbed my toe.

Sherry's intent in the heat of the moment was to maneuver Kadie into the garage and then grab something (such as ripping the bumper off of her car) and smashing the raccoon into a greasy spot on the pavement (you don't get between Sherry and her dog). Well, the fight moved back around to the side of the house and Sherry was still screaming. I ran back up the stairs and to the back of the house, but by that time the raccoon had vanished.

We each checked out Kadie separately to double check for wounds but didn't find anything. The next morning though she (Kadie, not Sherry) was unusually lethargic. She was laying on her side and then we noticed a fairly good gash on her haunch, and some bite marks on her stomach. That made sense, as the raccoon being smaller than Kadie was underneath her at times during the scrap.

Kadie is current on her shots, but Sherry took her to the vet to make sure all was good. They put her on antibiotics for a week and she bounced back the next day.

I went into the yard the next day curious to see if I could see evidence of the fight. Kind of a CSI:Tigard. Well, unfortunately there was a casualty. Laying in pieces on the back landing (our yard is on two levels) were the remains of our small portable barbecue. The handle had been shattered, and the lid bent beyond repair. The grill was about three feet away. At first I thought maybe that's what the raccoons were after, trying to drag away the barbecue. I mentioned it to Sherry, and she said that in her coming to Kadie's defense she picked up the barbecue, and with all her strength flung it at the raccoon.

Like I said, it's not good to get between Sherry and her dog.

Rock the boat, don't rock the boat baby....

I used to travel frequently for my job, and love to read. Combining those two things, I once fell into a habit of looking for and reading novels about plane crashes.

Not sure if and/or why I had succumbed to such a nefarious temptation, but perhaps it was an inverse reaction to my fearlessness of flying (take that, Erica Jong). I've always felt safe, perhaps even invulnerable; as I shrouded my fragile human form cargo with an impenetrable engineering marvel with double and triple redundancies as it shot me across the sky at hundreds of miles an hour (yes, there is a lousy attempt at sarcasm there).

I always felt lulled at takeoff, sometimes even slumbering through the first round of cabin service. If you too are a frequent traveler, you may remember that particular moaning sound of an Airbus 320 as it claws it's way into the sky. It's easy to imagine the popping of a rivet due to the airframe stress, and then in slow motion seeing that rivet being ingested by the powerful jet engine. The turbofan blades are torn apart in a shrieking cacaphony of tortured metal. Ooops! There I go again. I was reading a portion of Crichton's masterpiece "Airframe" once out loud to a friend who happened to be on the same flight and he almost got airsick (Steve, aren't you glad this wasn't you?).

Well, recently the Miami Herald reported that dozens of passengers were injured when the new Crown Princess cruise ship suddenly listed after leaving Port Canaveral. The article reports that:

"Chaos and panic engulfed the young Crown Princess ship Tuesday when it listed drastically to its left, throwing passengers and crew to the floor. Two people were critically injured, including a child, officials said. A dozen more suffered serious injuries and about 70 had lesser injuries. No deaths were reported, and the U.S. Coast Guard said all passengers and crew have been accounted for. The accident, apparently a result of problems with the ship's steering equipment, happened at 3:25 p.m. about 11 miles off the Florida coast as the Crown Princess sailed toward New York."

While I could make some witty sarcastic remark about attributing the disaster to Martha Stewart's christening of the ship with her legendary anger and shattering the champagne bottle so hard that the structural integrity of the ship was compromised, I'll refrain and point out something even more bizarre.

Believe it or not, the feature film scheduled for that night on the ship was the movie....Titanic.

The devel made me do it

I didn't make up that title, but I love it.

It was reported that a vandal was captured in the act of applying graffiti to a church. Now, I'm not suggesting a correlation between Satanism and illiteracy, but one of the phrases stated "Happy Birthday Satin".

Perhaps he (the vandal) truly had an affection for textiles and had intended to also wish cotton & polyester well on their special day before he was apprehended.

Handling Stress

Stress.

It seems to be prevalent in our culture today, and a lot of it seems to originate from our jobs. People respond to job stress in different ways, some of them healthy and some not so healthy. One thing that helps me is exercise. When I run or cycle, I sometimes disassociate from the exertion and think about stuff. Sometimes I think deep thoughts about God and theology. At other times I think of the social upheaval and re-establishing of relationships on Gilligan's Island if the Brady Bunch joined the castaways.

Sometimes I think about work, and actually come up with creative solutions to problems or challenges. "Sick!" you may cry, but it is a peaceful resolution. On average, I come up with 1.7 solutions per mile. I should start running marathons.

Well, other people deal with jobs in, shall we say; an unhealthy way? From the July 9 Des Moine Register reporter Clark Kauffman reports that:

An Iowa judge has denied unemployment benefits to a man who claimed discrimination after being fired from an ethanol plant for drinking "automobile fuel" produced by the company. Cory Neddermeyer, 42, was fired in April from Amazing Energy in Denison, where he worked as a maintenance technician. The company produces ethanol fuel for vehicles in a formula that includes a high concentration of alcohol. Neddermeyer was fired after an April 21 incident at the Denison plant. According to Neddermeyer, he showed up for work that morning and saw that there had been a spill of fuel alcohol. Hundreds of gallons of 190-proof alcohol were contained in a 6-inch-deep holding pond that was about 30 feet by 24 feet.

It proved to be too much to resist for a recovering alocholic, and Neddermeyer

"..thought about the availability of this alcohol throughout the day. Curious about the taste and its effects, I dipped into this lake of liquor and drank what I considered to be 2 to 3 ounces. The next thing I remember is waking up in Crawford County Memorial Hospital."

He had been found by his co-workers in an incoherent state, unable to say his name or the day of the week. He was taken to a hospital, where his blood-alcohol level, according to state records, was reported at 0.72 - nine times the legal limit for driving, and almost double the level that is considered potentially fatal for many adults.

How strong is 190-proof alcohol? "Proof" is twice the percentage of alcohol in a beverage. For example, a drink that is 40 percent alcohol would be 80 proof. Pure alcohol is 200 proof. Most American wine is 18 to 28 proof. The fuel-alcohol Cory Neddermeyer drank was 190 proof, or 95 percent alcohol. Neddermeyer was fired, and I'm still stunned that he was denied unemployment benefits, but he is getting 'help' for his addiction.

Or take the case of a man right here in Portland, Oregon who went to a hospital complaining of a headache was found to have 12 nails embedded in his skull from a suicide attempt with a nail gun, doctors say. Surgeons removed the nails with needle-nosed pliers and a drill, and the man survived with no serious lasting effects, according to a report on the medical oddity in the current issue of the Journal of Neurosurgery.

The unidentified 33-year-old man was suicidal and high on methamphetamine last year when he fired the nails — up to 2 inches in length — into his head one by one. As reported through the Associated Press:

The nails were not visible when doctors first examined the man in the emergency room of an unidentified Oregon hospital a day later. Doctors were surprised when X-rays revealed six nails clustered between his right eye and ear, two below his right ear and four on the left side of his head. The man at first told doctors he had had a nail gun accident, but later admitted it was a suicide attempt.

I think I'll keep running.

Katharine Jefferts Schori

Time magazine (July 17, 2006 issue) contains an interview with Katharine Jefferts Schori, who just became the Presiding Bishop-Elect of the Episcopal Church of the U.S.A. It was very interesting to read, and so that my comments are not taken out of context you can read the interview here (registration required). As you probably are aware, Schori has become a lightning rod for her position on homosexuality. But, the interview included other questions that elicited insightful responses.

Several of these questions and her responses intrigued me, so I'll copy those questions to Schori, document her responses, then I'll add my responses to her responses, and if you are not asleep by that point I'll finish with a bit of commentary! That will surely finish you off. I'll state up front that it is hard to reconstruct her worldview from a few quick interview questions, but I think we can quickly grasp her emphasis and what she desires the church to be.

What will be your focus as head of the U.S. church?

Schori: Our focus needs to be on feeding people who go to bed hungry, on providing primary education to girls and boys, on healing people with AIDS, on addressing tuberculosis and malaria, on sustainable development. That ought to be the primary focus.

Dave: These are admirable goals, and are freed from ambiguity. It makes me think of Matthew 5:16 - "let your light shine before men in such a way that they see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven". What seems to be missing from Schori's response though is God!

The Westminster Shorter Catechism asks "what is the chief end of man"? The answer is "Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever". Jesus said in John 10:37 "If I do not do the works of My Father, do not believe Me...". Perhaps she is making the assumption that the interviewer and reader would take the stance of a relationship with God as the foundation and from that foundation the social focus would be primary. However, that stretches into eisegesis (reading into the text, rather than drawing out from the text). She is clear about her primary focus.

Now this is just a sound bite from Schori, but from this snippet I would think that the primary focus should be to know and bring glory to God, and out of this relationship we show our concern and compassion in tangible ways.

Is belief in Jesus the only way to get to heaven?

Schori: We who practice the Christian tradition understand him as our vehicle to the divine. But for us to assume that God could not act in other ways is, I think, to put God in an awfully small box.

Dave: Fascinating response - surely God is bigger than we could ever understand and His creativity is seen in, but also transcends; this space, time and dimension we live in. But the revelation of God and the plan for getting to heaven (i.e. salvation) is clearly communicated. But none other than Jesus himself seems to indicate that there is a "small box" - in Matthew 7:13 Jesus exhorts us to:

"Enter through the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is broad that leads to destruction, and there are many who enter through it."

In John 14:6 Jesus makes this startling and exclusionary profession (John 14:6) "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life - no man comes to the Father except by me". On the cross, Jesus makes a reference that it (the plan of redemption) is finished (John 19:30).

If the small box analogy must be used, I think a modified response might be something like "rather than think that the way to salvation exists in a small box, as Christians we focus on what is inside the box. We find that in opening that little box, that it seems endless in the marvels it contains." We look at at scriptures like this and find our hope expressed:

"that He would grant you, according to the riches of His glory, to be strengthened with power through His Spirit in the inner man." (Ephesians 3:16)

"Oh, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways!" (Romans 11:33)

Do you have a favorite Bible verse?

Schori: Chapter 61 of Isaiah is an icon for me of what Christian work should be about. That's what Jesus reads in His first public act. In Luke, he walks into the synagogue and reads from Isaiah. It talks about a vision of the reign of God where those who are mourning are comforted, where the hungry are fed, where the poor hear good news.

Dave: I love that passage, what a vivid and inspiring vision. When Jesus quoted Isaiah in Luke, he finishes by stating that "The eyes of everyone in the synagogue were fastened on him, and he began by saying to them, "Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing." Can you imagine the scene? The news of Jesus had been spreading like wildfire, the chat rooms and texting filled the whole countryside of Galilee. Jesus then makes this bold statement, and all eyes are riveted upon him. He just claimed to be The One! My point is that although we acknowledge the compassion, we cannot separate the message from the Messiah.

Here then is my commentary:

I admire Schori's goals, but there is something missing to me. Do you sense it too? To me, her vision is horizontal - focused on man. When Jesus was challenged in Matthew 22 by the Jewish sect known as the Pharisees (teachers and expositors of the Old Testament law) who asked him what was the greatest commandment, Jesus quoted from the passage known as the Shema (Deuteronomy 6). This passage was central to the Jewish faith, and Jesus quotes verse 5 which states that we must "Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength". That response alone would have satisfied the Pharisees, and justified their attempts at living a legalistic lifestyle.

Returning to Matthew 22 But Jesus goes on to qualify his response: "This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

Schori seems to have gotten the order reversed, mankind first and then God. But she doesn't even mention God! I prayed for her when I read the interview, that her heart would be captured by God's glory, majesty, and holiness. Out of that understanding flows the kinds of actions that testify to our love for God.

The next Lance Armstrong?

Sherry and I have been following the Tour de France, and have been riding our bikes pretending to be Lance and Jan Ullrich. Of course, with Ullrich out due to allegations of drug use we had to stand in Ivan Basso. Oh wait, he too is out due to the allegations. So is Oscar Sevilla. OK, let's go with Bobby Julich. Bummer! He's out with an injury, probably torpedoing my Team du Jour of CSC.

Well, as long as we are fantasizing we'll go back to Ullrich, the perennial fly in Armstrong's ointment. Who can forget the famous "look" as he attacked Jan Ullrich up the famous L’Alpe D’Huez in 2001:

Well, sometimes Sherry is Lance and I'm Jan, and other times we'll reverse. We had planned a 30 mile ride on Sunday, starting at Clackamas Town Center and following the I-205 bike path out to the Columbia, riding an out and back 10 miles on Marine Drive, and then back to Town Center. Alas, was not to be. We were about 7 miles into the ride going about 17-18 MPH when I heard Sherry scream. I looked back to see her run into a chain link fence, careen off and then go down in a jarring tangle of aluminum, carbon fiber and flesh. We called 911 and I was put on hold for about 90 seconds, but it seemed like an eternity. Two very helpful cyclists had stopped to assist, one was a lifeguard and the other a paramedic so they were knowledgeable about what to do and what not to do while waiting for the ambulance. It turns out that Sherry had slaked her thirst and upon the attempt to put the bottle back in the cage, momentarily looked down and veered off of the path.

Upon arrival of the ambulance, she was put on a back board and then loaded up. They couldn't fit her bike, my bike, and me all in the ambulance so I 'volunteered' to ride back to the truck, load my bike and then drive to the ER. I think watching my wife being driven off in the ambulance was one of the saddest things I've ever experienced. However, I took the stress out in a blitz back to the truck. I rode as hard as I've ever rode, with fear, compassion, apprehension flooding me with adrenalin. Forget doping, I was a man on a mission. I probably could have won a stage and captured the coveted maillot jaune (yellow jersey).

Fortunately Sherry had no broken bones, but just some nasty bruises, sprains and road rash. She's already talking about getting back in the saddle, although we will need to get a new one as it was shredded in the crash. Other fatalities include her helmet, which is cracked and punctured (by a rock?) and possibly a wheel that is bent. Here's hoping for a speedy recovery honey!

A (mostly) wonderful weekend at the beach

We had a weekend at the beach! Friends Reed and Andrea tied the knot at the Flying Dutchman winery in Depoe Bay, and we thought it would be a great way to have a getaway, wish them well and watch the nupitals, and enjoy the beauty of the Oregon coast.

Sherry was talking with some friends prior to the trip, and somehow it came out that Jim and Julie also were spending the weekend at the coast, right in Depoe Bay where the wedding was! At their encouragement (it didn't take much) we abandoned the hotel we had secured (thankfully at not cost to us) and joined them in Julie's cousin's home. Right above the ocean, it sleeps twelve so it was very roomy.

We got to the coast early on Friday, and had several hours to kill before meeting up with them. There was a state park perched right on top of a bluff over the ocean with a big grassy area. We threw the ball for Kadie and then played a game of acey deucey (Sherry barely won, but I actually let her) while enjoying a warm, sunny afternoon - at the Oregon coast! In fact, the weather was awesome the entire weekend.

We went crabbing! I had no idea how it worked, thinking maybe you just dug them up out of the sand. Nope, we went out on a boat and threw crab pots overboard, baited with thawed chicken breasts. We'd wait a while and then haul the pot up and grab the crabs. Even though I was wearing gloves I was still a bit discomfited rooting around and grabbing these scrambling little clawed creatures. We would measure them to see if they were of proper length, and if not pitch right back into the bay. Turned out that we had only two that met the requirements, so we decided to go out for dinner.

We went to a restuarant called April's, and it was wonderful. I'm not a big seafood fan, so I usually default to the lone steak offering to pacify the landlubbers like me. They served a New York steak with an apricot glaze that was to die for. The only disappointment was that they didn't have onion rings. I really like a few onion rings with my steak. They were a bit offended and responded that "there is no need to deep fry anything in this establishment". I had to forgive them as the steak was that good. We were acting goofy and laughing so hard I thought they would kick us out, but we were ringing up a pretty hefty tab and that seemed to have mitigated our good natured obnoxiousness.

Reed and Andrea's wedding was a great experience. They are adventure racers, and you can read a great article about their romance here (don't miss the part about them being "mushy gushy in love"!). Reed is tall, and everyone said that for some reason his tuxedo seemed to add a few inches to his height! Andrea looked beautiful in her dress, and Sherry said to me "I want us to look like them", in a reference to their obvious fit appearance. I guess that a fit appearance doesn't fit me! The ceremony was personal, moving and unique as the children were involved too. It was very windy (it was outdoors) but the location at the Flying Dutchman winery could not have been better as they had a private little garden/reception area with a patio deck right at the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Reed's friend Colin officiated, and he was eloquent and fun all at the same time.

Well, as you noticed I prefaced the word "wonderful" in the title with a disclaimer of "mostly". On Sunday, we left around 1:00 PM and drove north to Lincoln City. Intending to return to Tigard (suburb of Portland) by going through Grand Ronde and then McMinnville on Highway 18. I have to be honest, about 6 miles out of Lincoln City I saw a sign that said "Road Closed" ahead. I was a bit puzzled and I should have turned around at that instant. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. About another 2 miles we ran into a wall of cars. We sat there for about 10 minutes and didn't move atll. Then, we began creeping. And stopping. And creeping. And stopping. It soon became apparent that our (slow) progress was due to cars turning around somewhere up the road. We had rounded a bend, and had enough view to see scores of cars down the road, without exaggeration I believe we could see about a hundred vehicles from where we were.

Later we found that it turned out to be a multiple fatality accident right at Grand Ronde, and investigators were recreating the scene, transporting the victims, interviewing witnesses, clearing the road, etc etc. Horrible loss due to a truck crossing the centerline and hurtling directly into two motorcycles, then veering back into traffic and sideswiping two other cars.

Well, eventually we turned around too. The rest of the day went like this:

1. We returned to 101, and headed north. We had a high level (not detailed) map, and saw that Highway 22 appeared to take us east to the extent that we believed we would miss whatever was happening on 18. We drove about half an hour and then hit a dead stop with cars lined up for at least a half mile we could see. I knew from the milepost signs that there was still about 5 miles to go until it intersected with 18, so it was not unreasonable to estimate that there was a 4 mile traffic jam.
2. We returned to 101, and headed north. Looking at the map, we saw back roads leading out of Cloverdale that appeared to go directly east toward Yamhill, from which we could have dropped into Sherwood and then home. After consulting with some helpful locals who asked if we had sleeping bags and food for what would likely be an overnight stay because one wrong turn would get us lost for hours, we abandoned that idea.
3. We returned to 101, and headed north. We were hungry, so we stopped for an early dinner in Tillamook and intended to take Highway 6 to Banks and then to 26 and return home. A tow truck driver was also stopping for lunch, and we began talking about the wreck on 18 which he had been monitoring from his radio. He mentioned that Highway 6 had also just reported a bad accident with traffic backed up and only one lane getting through. Sigh.
4. We returned to 101, and headed north, intending to go to Seaside and then take 26 back to Portland and then home. Out of Nehalem we remembered Highway 53, which cut about 11 miles off of 26 and would allow us to avoid Seaside. We traveled 53 without incident, and then hit a wall of cars on 26.
5. We considered returning to 101 and going to Astoria and taking Highway 30 down to Portland, but then decided after numerous attempts that day at going east to just stick it out on Highway 26. It took us almost two hours to get from milepost 11 to 24, and we thought there had been a big wreck on 26 (which is not uncommon unfortuneately). At milepost 24 though the traffic opened up like sunrise after a dark night and we made it home without further delay.

All in all, it took us TEN HOURS to get home from what should have been a three hour tour, a three...hour....tour. Was the weekend worth it? It was!