I've been having a disappointing amount of trouble (or a troubling amount of disappointment, perhaps) getting my climbing legs this year. Last season, I felt like a mountain goat; this year, I just feel like an old goat. I haven't had to walk this many hills in the entire time since I switched to the recumbent bike.
To say I've been feeling dispirited is an understatement. Turtle's gotten tired of hearing me kvetch about feeling like a loser, so when my recumbent-riding buddies, The Stradas, told us how ecstatic they are with their chiropractor's work with Mr. Strada's IT band and Mrs. Strada's back, she made an appointment for me and made me promise to keep it.
So I did. Yesterday, after work, I showed up at the chiropractor's office and spent half an hour filling out reams of forms promising that no matter how severely I might become temporarily or permanently disabled, I wouldn't hold the practitioner responsible. No big deal, I thought. It's not as if I'm here to have my broke-down neck and back worked on. He's just going to help me clear the lactic acid from my legs.
After a while, I was shown to the examination room. The doctor came in and I was immediately struck by how triangular he was. From shoulders to waist, like a pyramid stood on its head. Neck like a bull's; biceps as large as my thighs.
“Haveyoubeentoachiropractorbefore?” he asked, speaking so rapidly that I had to play the question back in my head before I understood what he'd said.
“No,” I said. Then, ignoring the little voice that warned me not to provoke someone who twists necks for a living, I felt somehow compelled to add, “I've always felt like chiropractors were more or less on a level with witch doctors.”
He smiled, flashing me his perfect, too-white teeth. “Ah,” he said, completely unperturbed. “I'lljusthavetoseewhatIcandotochangeyourmind,won'tI?”
He had me lie face-down on the padded table and told me he was going to do his very best to get me fixed up. Now we're cooking, I thought. Work those hamstr–
CRRUNCH!!
“Unf!” I said. Holy Mother of Pearl!! I thought.
“Now we're cooking,” Dr. Crusher said.
“Hey, I–”
CA-RRUNCH!!
“What the–”
KRAKK!
Well, you get the idea. The good news is that we're still a one-paraplegic household. The better news is that last night I had my first full night of sleep (without the aid of drugs) since last September's bike crash.
I went back today for my second session and informed Dr. Crusher that, in light of last night's pain-free sleep, he'd advanced a couple positions up the line of respectability, past voodoo priests and snake oil salesmen to just ahead of acupuncturists. He smiled, crunched my back and neck a bit more, and then went to work on my legs.
29 April, 2008
11 April, 2008
10 April, 2008
Ruffled but unscathed
Spring in Texas means storms. Lots of storms. Noisy, windy, disconcerting storms in such quantities that one is tempted to mute the alarm on the weather alert radio just to avoid being wakened every 15 minutes, as some squall line or another claws its way inexorably eastward from Weatherford to Paris. “One” being me, in case that one got by you.
So it was business as usual when last night's news was filled with dire pronouncements of thunderstorm and tornado watches – and yet something told me I should unmute the weather alert radio before going to bed. And sure enough, the thing started going off at around 3:45 to tell us that Ft. Worth was getting hammered. I put it back on standby and got back in bed. The weather alert went off again a short time later, this time to inform us that the storm was dropping large hail and threatening funnel clouds in the neighboring county. This time, I put on my glasses and turned on the TV to see what the radar said.
The radar was very red with lots of little spinny things indicating areas of rotation that were moving at about 60 mph toward my little town. The radar was telling me, "Roust the Turtle out of bed, grab the kittens, and get ye to the guest bathroom away from the windows. Take ye also the little Casio TV and a candle.
“P.S. - Don't forget matches.”
About five minutes later, the storm hit. I wasn't sure if the roaring was the wind, or hail, or just a whole bunch of rain; and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. The power went out, so I lit the candle and switched the TV over to batteries. By 4:15, it sounded safe to come out and go back to bed.
I rolled out of bed about 7am – an hour and a half past my usual weekday wake-up time. The power was still out, and as long as that was the case I wasn't going to work anyway. I pulled on a pair of jeans and headed outside, bracing myself for the sight of tree branches and shingles and sections of fence lying in the street. Instead, I was relieved to discover that not only was my house and yard intact, but so were the neighbors' places.
When I heard voices down the cul de sac, I shuffled that way and found one of the neighbor ladies and her kids taking stock, as I was. She was on the phone with the power company and had been, off and on, since 5:30. I successfully fought off the temptation to observe that the power company, having taken down her report once, might just have more pressing concerns than answering her repeated phone calls. Across the street, a large trampoline lay, mangled, in the middle of the entrance to the alley, apparently having failed to stick its landing after a successful leap to freedom over a back yard privacy fence.
“Ah well,” said the trampoline's owner, who had just come outside. “We were wanting to get rid of that thing anyway.” When we and her son picked up the trampoline to move it out of the alleyway, it dutifully fell to pieces.
“Well, there you go,” I said. “So much for having to disassemble it.”
One of the neighbors said that the expensive new development three or four miles to the west of us had been hit hard and that she'd heard that a category one tornado had touched down there. I said a little prayer of thanks and headed back to my undamaged home where my wife and pets were dry and safe to wait for the power to come back on.
Now playing: Remy Zero, Villa Elaine
So it was business as usual when last night's news was filled with dire pronouncements of thunderstorm and tornado watches – and yet something told me I should unmute the weather alert radio before going to bed. And sure enough, the thing started going off at around 3:45 to tell us that Ft. Worth was getting hammered. I put it back on standby and got back in bed. The weather alert went off again a short time later, this time to inform us that the storm was dropping large hail and threatening funnel clouds in the neighboring county. This time, I put on my glasses and turned on the TV to see what the radar said.
The radar was very red with lots of little spinny things indicating areas of rotation that were moving at about 60 mph toward my little town. The radar was telling me, "Roust the Turtle out of bed, grab the kittens, and get ye to the guest bathroom away from the windows. Take ye also the little Casio TV and a candle.
“P.S. - Don't forget matches.”
About five minutes later, the storm hit. I wasn't sure if the roaring was the wind, or hail, or just a whole bunch of rain; and I wasn't sure I wanted to know. The power went out, so I lit the candle and switched the TV over to batteries. By 4:15, it sounded safe to come out and go back to bed.
I rolled out of bed about 7am – an hour and a half past my usual weekday wake-up time. The power was still out, and as long as that was the case I wasn't going to work anyway. I pulled on a pair of jeans and headed outside, bracing myself for the sight of tree branches and shingles and sections of fence lying in the street. Instead, I was relieved to discover that not only was my house and yard intact, but so were the neighbors' places.
When I heard voices down the cul de sac, I shuffled that way and found one of the neighbor ladies and her kids taking stock, as I was. She was on the phone with the power company and had been, off and on, since 5:30. I successfully fought off the temptation to observe that the power company, having taken down her report once, might just have more pressing concerns than answering her repeated phone calls. Across the street, a large trampoline lay, mangled, in the middle of the entrance to the alley, apparently having failed to stick its landing after a successful leap to freedom over a back yard privacy fence.
“Ah well,” said the trampoline's owner, who had just come outside. “We were wanting to get rid of that thing anyway.” When we and her son picked up the trampoline to move it out of the alleyway, it dutifully fell to pieces.
“Well, there you go,” I said. “So much for having to disassemble it.”
One of the neighbors said that the expensive new development three or four miles to the west of us had been hit hard and that she'd heard that a category one tornado had touched down there. I said a little prayer of thanks and headed back to my undamaged home where my wife and pets were dry and safe to wait for the power to come back on.
Now playing: Remy Zero, Villa Elaine
08 April, 2008
Brian Dettmer: Book Autopsies
Brian Dettmer slices away layers of pages in books to expose the interior illustrations and create from them layered three-dimensional sculptures. I admit to being a bit squeamish about the notion of carving up the New Testament, but this is amazing stuff.
See at Centripital Notion and Aron Packer Gallery.
See at Centripital Notion and Aron Packer Gallery.
Does that make me a transvestite?
In the interest of full disclosure – and because I don't really have anyone else to make fun of write about, just now – I feel I should share something that happened this past weekend.
It was a bit brisk outside when I started getting myself together to ride Saturday morning, so I was procrastinating a bit about getting my stuff together. Finally, I'd convinced myself that it really wasn't that cold; and anyway, because the ride starts at 9:30, it always (okay, usually) warmed up nicely by the end of the first 10 miles or so. By the time I'd reached this decision, I was running close on time and dashed around the house preparing energy drink, putting my bike in the car, and finally throwing on the first jersey and shorts I found.
At the parking lot where we meet to ride, I finished the breakfast biscuit I'd picked up along the way and started unloading/assembling my bike. At the last minute, I thought to spray on some sun block and I remember thinking to myself that the elastic leg bands on my shorts seemed tight. Must be the hill training, I thought. My legs are getting bigger. The shorts also seemed just a bit shorter than I remembered. Woo-hoo! I thought. I finally must be getting my growing spurt!
We were about 10 miles into the ride (it had warmed up nicely) when my brain, in shuffle mode, replayed a conversation I'd had with Turtle off and on for a couple weeks.
Turtle: I'm missing a pair of my bike shorts. Do you think they might have gotten mixe in with yours?
Foo: Mmmm-hmm... that sounds fine.
Turtle: Seriously. I think they might be in your closet. Are you listening?
Foo: Huh?
Turtle: Would you check your closet to see if you got a pair of my bike shorts?
Foo: Why on earth would I have your shorts?
Turtle: [sighs]
Foo: Okay, sure. Just let me wrap up this bug fix I'm working on, and I'll go check. But I'm sure I would've noticed if I had any of your shorts.
When we stopped for a break at our usual spot, I dug out my cell phone and called Turtle to tell her I'd found her shorts.
Don't get me wrong. This isn't the first time I've worn women's clothing. There was that time back in the mid '80s when I dressed up as a nun for Hallowe'en (going to hell; got it). I guess what I found just a little amusing is that I almost couldn't tell the difference between a pair of women's shorts and my own.
It was a bit brisk outside when I started getting myself together to ride Saturday morning, so I was procrastinating a bit about getting my stuff together. Finally, I'd convinced myself that it really wasn't that cold; and anyway, because the ride starts at 9:30, it always (okay, usually) warmed up nicely by the end of the first 10 miles or so. By the time I'd reached this decision, I was running close on time and dashed around the house preparing energy drink, putting my bike in the car, and finally throwing on the first jersey and shorts I found.
At the parking lot where we meet to ride, I finished the breakfast biscuit I'd picked up along the way and started unloading/assembling my bike. At the last minute, I thought to spray on some sun block and I remember thinking to myself that the elastic leg bands on my shorts seemed tight. Must be the hill training, I thought. My legs are getting bigger. The shorts also seemed just a bit shorter than I remembered. Woo-hoo! I thought. I finally must be getting my growing spurt!
We were about 10 miles into the ride (it had warmed up nicely) when my brain, in shuffle mode, replayed a conversation I'd had with Turtle off and on for a couple weeks.
Turtle: I'm missing a pair of my bike shorts. Do you think they might have gotten mixe in with yours?
Foo: Mmmm-hmm... that sounds fine.
Turtle: Seriously. I think they might be in your closet. Are you listening?
Foo: Huh?
Turtle: Would you check your closet to see if you got a pair of my bike shorts?
Foo: Why on earth would I have your shorts?
Turtle: [sighs]
Foo: Okay, sure. Just let me wrap up this bug fix I'm working on, and I'll go check. But I'm sure I would've noticed if I had any of your shorts.
When we stopped for a break at our usual spot, I dug out my cell phone and called Turtle to tell her I'd found her shorts.
Don't get me wrong. This isn't the first time I've worn women's clothing. There was that time back in the mid '80s when I dressed up as a nun for Hallowe'en (going to hell; got it). I guess what I found just a little amusing is that I almost couldn't tell the difference between a pair of women's shorts and my own.
07 April, 2008
Fontish self indulgence
I know that I sometimes veer a bit too far into the realm of geekdom for the tastes of some, but I hope you'll bear with me today, as I share a couple links.
Over the years, the advent of e-mail and an increase in the amount of time I spend keying computer code have taken a toll on my handwriting. While still arguably feminine-looking, my script now appears less like that of a sophisticated Jane Austen type and more like that of a psychotic ex-girlfriend who provides the inspiration to pack everything in the car and just skip town in the middle of the night.
It seems the folks at Smashing Magazine share my nostalgia for the bygone days of handwritten correspondence. Check it out.
While I was at the Smashing Magazine site, I just had to check out the link for one of their earlier postings, “63 Must Have Grunge Fonts”.
I can tell the available hard drive space on my home computer will be decreased by several megs, because there are more than a few of these I'll have to have.
Scratch, Chicken. Scratch.
Sometime between when the nuns gave me poor marks on my report card for holding my pencil “wrong” and my twenty-something years, I developed an artish passion for handwriting and calligraphy. The most significant result of this was the not-infrequent comment from others that my handwriting looked like a girl's – their way of saying that my script was, at the same time, pretty and legible. Later, I took an interest in the study of graphology and became reasonably adept at it (but that's another story).Over the years, the advent of e-mail and an increase in the amount of time I spend keying computer code have taken a toll on my handwriting. While still arguably feminine-looking, my script now appears less like that of a sophisticated Jane Austen type and more like that of a psychotic ex-girlfriend who provides the inspiration to pack everything in the car and just skip town in the middle of the night.
It seems the folks at Smashing Magazine share my nostalgia for the bygone days of handwritten correspondence. Check it out.
Got Grunge?
At the other end of the spectrum are those fonts that have been created to intentionally create the impression of crud and untidyness. You see them everywere, from the handbills advertising bands at the local rock clubs to the titles for televised sporting events.While I was at the Smashing Magazine site, I just had to check out the link for one of their earlier postings, “63 Must Have Grunge Fonts”.
I can tell the available hard drive space on my home computer will be decreased by several megs, because there are more than a few of these I'll have to have.
06 April, 2008
The home stretch
With about four weeks to go until the Frisco-to-Ft. Worth MS 150, things are finally beginning to fall into place. On the hells heels of a two-week period when I worked over 140 hours, my manager assures me that we're out of panic mode. That means I should have a few full weekends when I actually get to try to put some miles under my wheels instead of sitting inside, pecking away on my laptop.
Yesterday, I got out for a beautiful 40-mile group ride on a route with plenty of rolling hills. My legs felt good all day, so if I can manage to get in a metric century at next weekend's Lancaster pay ride and then 50+ miles at the next weekend's sanctioned MS 150 training ride, I should be good for the distance. I'll just have to rein in my need for speed and avoid hammering along at 20+ mph like I did last year. If I do that, I may not have two 75-mile days in me.
I ran over something during yesterday's ride and put a half-inch cut all the way through the tire. When you've got a hole so big that you have to line the inside of the tire with a folded energy bar wrapper to keep the replacement tube from herniating out and flatting again, the tire's a goner. So I have a new set of Hutchinson Fusion 2s on the way, and I need to restock on C02 for my inflater. Strange... I seem to have gone through a lot of those this past year.
Meanwhile, today's the big day for the MS 1.5 kids' ride, here in Allen. Since the one in Flower Mound last month, Turtle, Leggy Peggy, and Squirrel Bait (who now prefers to be known as “Squirrelly Girl”) have been working really hard to put together this second event to raise funds for our MS 150 team. Prayers and other good thoughts are appreciated because, even though the ladies have planned their butts off, this is still going to be a lot of work.
Since my work load has been such a thorn in my tire for this year's MS 150 effort, keeping me off the road and away from blogging, I felt it only fair that I plaster fundraising flyers in every break room and restroom in the office.* I used one of those crappy glue sticks – the kind that don't stick very well – to stick little strips of paper across the bottom with my online donation link printed on them, so people could pull them off and not have to remember the URL as they dash to their computers to shower the MS Society with filthy lucre. That's my plan, and the plan is working to the extent that I can tell my coworkers are taking the URL strips; but I guess they're waiting until next pay day for the showering part.
I've even been contacted by the woman who does the company newsletter, who wants me to be sure to let her know how many employees contributed toward my MS 150 efforts and how much, after the ride. If I'd known, I might have been able to convince her that getting the word out before the ride might have gotten more donations from more employees so that she'd have even more to put in the newsletter, where the company likes to list all the ways in which it helps the community.
So I'm off to drink a cup of coffee or two before diving into the preparations for today's MS 1.5. Wish us luck!
* You may be wondering how my flyers got posted in the women's restrooms. Let's just say I get in to work much earlier than most of my coworkers.
Yesterday, I got out for a beautiful 40-mile group ride on a route with plenty of rolling hills. My legs felt good all day, so if I can manage to get in a metric century at next weekend's Lancaster pay ride and then 50+ miles at the next weekend's sanctioned MS 150 training ride, I should be good for the distance. I'll just have to rein in my need for speed and avoid hammering along at 20+ mph like I did last year. If I do that, I may not have two 75-mile days in me.
I ran over something during yesterday's ride and put a half-inch cut all the way through the tire. When you've got a hole so big that you have to line the inside of the tire with a folded energy bar wrapper to keep the replacement tube from herniating out and flatting again, the tire's a goner. So I have a new set of Hutchinson Fusion 2s on the way, and I need to restock on C02 for my inflater. Strange... I seem to have gone through a lot of those this past year.
Meanwhile, today's the big day for the MS 1.5 kids' ride, here in Allen. Since the one in Flower Mound last month, Turtle, Leggy Peggy, and Squirrel Bait (who now prefers to be known as “Squirrelly Girl”) have been working really hard to put together this second event to raise funds for our MS 150 team. Prayers and other good thoughts are appreciated because, even though the ladies have planned their butts off, this is still going to be a lot of work.
Since my work load has been such a thorn in my tire for this year's MS 150 effort, keeping me off the road and away from blogging, I felt it only fair that I plaster fundraising flyers in every break room and restroom in the office.* I used one of those crappy glue sticks – the kind that don't stick very well – to stick little strips of paper across the bottom with my online donation link printed on them, so people could pull them off and not have to remember the URL as they dash to their computers to shower the MS Society with filthy lucre. That's my plan, and the plan is working to the extent that I can tell my coworkers are taking the URL strips; but I guess they're waiting until next pay day for the showering part.
I've even been contacted by the woman who does the company newsletter, who wants me to be sure to let her know how many employees contributed toward my MS 150 efforts and how much, after the ride. If I'd known, I might have been able to convince her that getting the word out before the ride might have gotten more donations from more employees so that she'd have even more to put in the newsletter, where the company likes to list all the ways in which it helps the community.
So I'm off to drink a cup of coffee or two before diving into the preparations for today's MS 1.5. Wish us luck!
* You may be wondering how my flyers got posted in the women's restrooms. Let's just say I get in to work much earlier than most of my coworkers.
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