In 2001, Turtle and I were conducting our long-distance courtship and doing our part to keep TWA in business. A typical visit had me catching a flight to St. Louis on Thursday after work. We'd spend the weekend trying to soak in as much of each other as we could before Turtle dropped me off at the airport and send me back to Texas on Sunday afternoon. It got to be pretty routine, but there was one Sunday at the airport that sticks with me.
I was making my way briskly toward my gate when an athletic-looking young man blew past me in a wheelchair. And then two more, hot on his (w)heels. It was the sort of thing that caught my attention in those early days of getting to know my favorite wheelchair athlete, and I wondered what their story might be. But I didn't have to wonder long. When I arrived at my gate, I found the same three boys and about another half dozen besides, all milling about in wheelchairs and carrying duffel bags on their laps.
A basketball team.
Having put Turtle on a number of flights, I knew the early boarding drill and wasn't at all surprised when the whole pack of them headed down the ramp to board the plane about 15 minutes before the rest of us were called. Eventually, it was my turn to shuffle down the narrow aisle of the plane to my seat. Shuffle a few steps. Wait. Shuffle. Wait. Wait.
I craned my neck to see what was holding up the line. Instead of the usual clueless traveler trying to shove a foot locker into the overhead compartment, the hold up was young man hauling his heavily-braced legs down the aisle and laughing as he harassed a couple teammates already in their seats. A fifty-ish man ahead of me twisted in his seat to scowl at the boy.
“All right, that's enough,” he said firmly. “Find your seat and park it.”
The boy in the braces smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Coach.”
The line started moving again, and I realized that I had the window seat next to the coach. I paused for a moment, giving him a chance to pull his legs back or half stand to let me by. When he did neither, I glanced down and noticed his wasted legs – at about the same time as he caught me at it.
That's how I met Jim Hayes, coach and founder of the UTA Movin' Mavs wheelchair basketball team.
During the flight, we had a very interesting conversation. He told me about his work with the team and about the tournament they were returning from. I told him about Turtle and her wheelchair racing.
Last evening, I was watching the news and learned that Jim Hayes had passed away this past Saturday, after a brief illness.
This evening, Anna Nicole Smith and Britney Spears were in the news again, and it struck me as very unfair that such shallow, wasted lives seem to get all the attention and that truly worthwhile, inspirational ones go largely unheralded. I know that this posting won't do much to balance the scales; but a little additional recognition for a life well spent is the least I can do for Coach Hayes. If I feel richer, having only spent an hour with him, I can only imagine the impact he must have had on the lives of those who really knew him.
28 May, 2008
06 May, 2008
The long and winding road '08
As I look back on last year's post-ride report, I can see that I waxed rather poetic about my first MS 150 experience. This year's ride, though no less deserving, won't get quite the same treatment mostly because it's more difficult this year to find the time to wax.
Last year, we had rain the first day, high winds the second day, and generally gloomy weather all weekend. This year, we had two beautiful sunny days, and the winds were relatively kind to us. Even on the first day, when we bucked a headwind for the first half of the day, at least it was the first half of the day. The weather was slightly cooler this year, which balanced the sunshine and made for very comfortable riding weather.
If it sounds like I'm spending a lot of time talking about the weather, maybe it's because as I type this, the view out the window of my office building is of heavy rain, dark as night except for frequent flashes of lightning. This could have been our fate for the MS 150 – but it wasn't.
I can't say enough good things about my Wheeler Dealer teammates and the time we spent together on and off the road. My plan when I recruited Mr. and Mrs. Strada to ride with us this year was to form a three-Bacchetta juggernaut. I always have a blast riding with those two, but while they spent the first few months of the year doing long-distance rides in excess of 100 miles, I spent my weekends and evenings sequestered at a keyboard, desperately trying to keep my head above the alligators. So the bad news was that I was in no shape to keep up with them for the MS 150. The good news was that I fell in with Squirrelly Girl and a couple of our new team members and had a great time with them for the better part of both days.
This year, there were eight of us all together as we rolled into the Ft. Worth city limits, and it was an incredible feeling to finish those last 100 yards to the finish as a group. Our tireless manager shuttled us off to stow the bikes on the truck and see to our carbohydrate replenishment needs before heading back to the finish line to cheer our remaining two teammates across the finish line.
I've struggled all year with my climbing and was feeling pretty apprehensive about the second day and those nasty hills I remembered from last year. But in the end, the only half hill I had to walk was the same one I had to walk last year. The same ones I ground my way up last year, I ground my way up this year. My first day rolling average was within a tenth of a mile per hour of last year's first day, and thanks to the lack of a 25 mph headwind my second day average was actually .7 mph faster this year.
So, another 157.4 miles under the wheels. More importantly, I was able to raise nearly $945 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society – nearly double last year's total.
Last year, we had rain the first day, high winds the second day, and generally gloomy weather all weekend. This year, we had two beautiful sunny days, and the winds were relatively kind to us. Even on the first day, when we bucked a headwind for the first half of the day, at least it was the first half of the day. The weather was slightly cooler this year, which balanced the sunshine and made for very comfortable riding weather.
If it sounds like I'm spending a lot of time talking about the weather, maybe it's because as I type this, the view out the window of my office building is of heavy rain, dark as night except for frequent flashes of lightning. This could have been our fate for the MS 150 – but it wasn't.
I can't say enough good things about my Wheeler Dealer teammates and the time we spent together on and off the road. My plan when I recruited Mr. and Mrs. Strada to ride with us this year was to form a three-Bacchetta juggernaut. I always have a blast riding with those two, but while they spent the first few months of the year doing long-distance rides in excess of 100 miles, I spent my weekends and evenings sequestered at a keyboard, desperately trying to keep my head above the alligators. So the bad news was that I was in no shape to keep up with them for the MS 150. The good news was that I fell in with Squirrelly Girl and a couple of our new team members and had a great time with them for the better part of both days.
This year, there were eight of us all together as we rolled into the Ft. Worth city limits, and it was an incredible feeling to finish those last 100 yards to the finish as a group. Our tireless manager shuttled us off to stow the bikes on the truck and see to our carbohydrate replenishment needs before heading back to the finish line to cheer our remaining two teammates across the finish line.
I've struggled all year with my climbing and was feeling pretty apprehensive about the second day and those nasty hills I remembered from last year. But in the end, the only half hill I had to walk was the same one I had to walk last year. The same ones I ground my way up last year, I ground my way up this year. My first day rolling average was within a tenth of a mile per hour of last year's first day, and thanks to the lack of a 25 mph headwind my second day average was actually .7 mph faster this year.So, another 157.4 miles under the wheels. More importantly, I was able to raise nearly $945 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society – nearly double last year's total.
Correction...
I received my accounting statement yesterday, and it shows my fundraising total to be $977. Maybe someone sneaked a check past me by sending it directly to the MS Society.29 April, 2008
Making adjustments
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.
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.
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.
27 March, 2008
Rockin' the red
The last time I can remember the WKU men's basketball team getting this far in the NCAA tournament was in the last century. I was living in Dallas in 1992. WKU alumni made up about a third of the 80 or so employees at the company where I worked. My best buddy from college lived on the other side of town, but he came over and joined the bunch of us to watch the game at Joe Willy's and cheer on the team.
I still remember feeling that WKU was robbed, more or less literally beaten by a Florida team whose full-contact style of play went largely unpenalized by the officials.
Sixteen years later, Joe Willy's is gone – locked out of their building for non-payment of their lease, according to one report. I've lost touch with most of the WKU folks who used to be my coworkers. My college buddy and I are both married and overworked, so I'll be on my own for tonight's game – assuming the network doesn't replace it with some other game I couldn't care less about.
That's why I was so excited when I got home from work and discovered the package that had come in the mail from my mom and dad. Curious, I opened it up and pulled out a very red t-shirt commemorating my alma mater's return to the Sweet 16. I was so touched by the gesture that I promptly put on my t-shirt, trotted out my Red Towel and my Big Red drink hugger, and had Turtle snap this pre-enactment shot of me rooting for the Hilltoppers.
Epilogue
The game started 40 minutes later than scheduled, and our local programming carried UofL and Tennessee as the primary game. I got to watch the first half on my computer before having to go to bed, but WKU was always outmatched by UCLA.At least I have my commemorative t-shirt.
24 March, 2008
Stuff it
(I admit it. This started as a comment on another blog, but these days I have to fan my faint sparks of inspiration as I find them.)
I ended up having to spend most of the long weekend working, but on general principal refused to crack open the work laptop on Easter. So, while I was flipping channels, trying to find something interesting to watch while waiting for the NCAA game between WKU and USD* to come on, I stumbled on an infomercial for some sort of… well, kind of like a grilled panini maker. Just the sort of thing that looked really cool and easy to use but which would probably sit in the back of some closet until meeting its ignoble end in a garage sale 15 years down the road.
But it wasn't the panini iron that piqued my interest. When they got to the “But wait! There’s more!” part of the spiel, one of the bonus items offered to entice the unwary impulse buyer was a “filling injector” – a sort of large gauge syringe that purported to be the ultimate solution for filling cupcakes with sugary goo, hot dogs with cheez whiz, and…
Well, perhaps it’s best not to dwell on some of the other possible uses.
Anyway, I got to thinking about a discussion Turtle and I had had a couple days earlier about the pros and cons of solid chocolate Easter bunnies vs. the hollow ones. She prefers the solid ones, which she likes to chop into chunks and tuck away, Dahmer style, in the freezer. I prefer the hollow ones because they're easier to eat without dislodging a tooth and, really, what 47-year-old man really needs anything to be solid chocolate?
Filling injector. Hollow chocolate Easter bunny. Marshmallow cream. Chocolate Easter bunny filled with marshmallow cream. Makes you want to throw up just thinking about it, doesn’t it? Or run up the wall, across the ceiling, out the door, and around the house about a dozen times to work off the sugar buzz.
23 March, 2008
I have a dream
(I actually began this posting on 2/29 and am only now finding time to get back to it. I hope it's not too dated.)
Last night was another of those nights. You know the kind: you sleep solidly, but your subconscious comes up with such such a full itinerary that by the time the alarm clock goes off, you're ready for a nice nap. On last night's agenda: primary elections.
I dreamed I'd gone down to my precinct's polling place to cast my primary ballot. After standing in line for half an hour or so, it was my turn to vote. A young, earnest-looking Julia Stiles type handed me a booklet the size of a large road atlas.
“What's this?” I asked.
“That's your ballot,” she said with a look that pitied me for being so old and out of it.
Not wanting to appear any less on top of things than I already had, I took my ballot, my No. 2 pencil, and my place at one of the dozen or so long, cafeteria-style tables. I opened my booklet and scanned the first page, which contained a series of statements. Next to each statement were two small ovals, labeled with “Yes” and “No”.
“You like to be engaged in an active and fast-paced job. Yes/No.”
“You usually plan your actions in advance. Yes/No.”
“You are strongly touched by the stories about people's troubles. Yes/No.”
“You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere. Yes/No.”
Weird, I thought as I began flipping pages and penciling in the ovals.
After a couple dozen pages of this, I reached the back page, expecting to finally have the opportunity to vote for my favored candidate. But instead of a list of candidates, there was only the phrase
I picked up my booklet, spotted the young woman I'd spoken with earlier, and walked over to hand her my booklet. “I don't understand,” I said. “I couldn't find any place on the ballot where I could mark my choices of candidates.”
She smiled patiently and explained that it had been determined that most of the voting public really weren't capable of making an informed decision. They were easily swayed by campaign rhetoric. They voted one party line or another out of habit or because that's how their parents had always voted. They chose the candidate who looked the most like they did. As a result of this, the election process had gone to a system similar to a Briggs-Myers personality survey so that the voter could be paired more accurately with the candidate whose values and ideology most closely matched his or her own.
I woke up thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever dreamt up, but as I took my shower, I got to thinking. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe some sort of test was the way to go – but only if the candidates were required to take the same test so that they couldn't fake their own beliefs and motivations.
Last night was another of those nights. You know the kind: you sleep solidly, but your subconscious comes up with such such a full itinerary that by the time the alarm clock goes off, you're ready for a nice nap. On last night's agenda: primary elections.
I dreamed I'd gone down to my precinct's polling place to cast my primary ballot. After standing in line for half an hour or so, it was my turn to vote. A young, earnest-looking Julia Stiles type handed me a booklet the size of a large road atlas.
“What's this?” I asked.
“That's your ballot,” she said with a look that pitied me for being so old and out of it.
Not wanting to appear any less on top of things than I already had, I took my ballot, my No. 2 pencil, and my place at one of the dozen or so long, cafeteria-style tables. I opened my booklet and scanned the first page, which contained a series of statements. Next to each statement were two small ovals, labeled with “Yes” and “No”.
“You like to be engaged in an active and fast-paced job. Yes/No.”
“You usually plan your actions in advance. Yes/No.”
“You are strongly touched by the stories about people's troubles. Yes/No.”
“You prefer to spend your leisure time alone or relaxing in a tranquil family atmosphere. Yes/No.”
Weird, I thought as I began flipping pages and penciling in the ovals.
After a couple dozen pages of this, I reached the back page, expecting to finally have the opportunity to vote for my favored candidate. But instead of a list of candidates, there was only the phrase
THANK YOU FOR VOTING!
centered, bold, in all-caps 48pt Helvetica (or Arial; I'm not sure).I picked up my booklet, spotted the young woman I'd spoken with earlier, and walked over to hand her my booklet. “I don't understand,” I said. “I couldn't find any place on the ballot where I could mark my choices of candidates.”
She smiled patiently and explained that it had been determined that most of the voting public really weren't capable of making an informed decision. They were easily swayed by campaign rhetoric. They voted one party line or another out of habit or because that's how their parents had always voted. They chose the candidate who looked the most like they did. As a result of this, the election process had gone to a system similar to a Briggs-Myers personality survey so that the voter could be paired more accurately with the candidate whose values and ideology most closely matched his or her own.
I woke up thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever dreamt up, but as I took my shower, I got to thinking. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe some sort of test was the way to go – but only if the candidates were required to take the same test so that they couldn't fake their own beliefs and motivations.
06 March, 2008
Snow job
Conventional wisdom has it that if we're going to get any snow here in Texas, it's going to happen in February. Riiight...
Don't get me wrong. I'm not under any illusions that this is a noteworthy snowfall in any locale that actually gets snow more than once every other year, but considering the amount of chaos that even rain causes around here, it's enough to turn a half-hour afternoon commute into a four-hour slog.
That's why, when the sleet started coming around noon (instead of 6pm like the weather experts predicted), pretty much everyone at my office who had the ability to do so packed up and headed home. It may sometimes seem like being issued a laptop is more of a curse than a blessing, but it sure was nice to have the option to pack it up, beat the nightmare traffic, and finish out the second half of my workday from the comfort of my own kitchen.
We didn't even get as much as a couple days ago, but look at the size of those snowflakes... no! Snowglobs!
There's a mildly amusing footnote to this picture – besides the fact that I was out in the street at 6am in my Jack Daniel's pajama bottoms, goose down slippers, a fleece pullover, and my winter coat. As I gingerly picked my way down the driveway, I noticed one of my neighbors from a couple houses down was doing the same thing (except that he was dressed for work). I hollered to him that it was kind of pathetic that this amount of snow was enough to bring us out at dawn to take pictures. He laughed and agreed. He was snapping a picture to send to his brother in Wisconsin, where they had three feet of snow.
I guess it's all relative.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not under any illusions that this is a noteworthy snowfall in any locale that actually gets snow more than once every other year, but considering the amount of chaos that even rain causes around here, it's enough to turn a half-hour afternoon commute into a four-hour slog.That's why, when the sleet started coming around noon (instead of 6pm like the weather experts predicted), pretty much everyone at my office who had the ability to do so packed up and headed home. It may sometimes seem like being issued a laptop is more of a curse than a blessing, but it sure was nice to have the option to pack it up, beat the nightmare traffic, and finish out the second half of my workday from the comfort of my own kitchen.
We didn't even get as much as a couple days ago, but look at the size of those snowflakes... no! Snowglobs!
Update...
My Allen homeboy, Chip, lives only a couple miles from me and observed that he got a lot more snow on Tuesday than you see in the pictures above. That's because those are from Thursday when we didn't get as much snow, but what we did get came faster and in bigger chunks. Here's a shot I took Tuesday morning:
There's a mildly amusing footnote to this picture – besides the fact that I was out in the street at 6am in my Jack Daniel's pajama bottoms, goose down slippers, a fleece pullover, and my winter coat. As I gingerly picked my way down the driveway, I noticed one of my neighbors from a couple houses down was doing the same thing (except that he was dressed for work). I hollered to him that it was kind of pathetic that this amount of snow was enough to bring us out at dawn to take pictures. He laughed and agreed. He was snapping a picture to send to his brother in Wisconsin, where they had three feet of snow.
I guess it's all relative.
23 February, 2008
We ride. Again.
Last May, I rode in my first ever Sam's Club MS 150 (Frisco/Ft. Worth). Along with the rest of my team, I rode a little over 150 miles over two days. Thanks in large part to the support of the blogging community, I was able to raise $500 for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society.
Well, I'm back for more, and I hope to do even better this year.
On May 3-4, I'll be riding with The Wheeler Dealers, an MS 150 team founded in 2005 by my friend Bob. I'm pleased to be riding with them again this year, not just because they have so much fun and because a couple of my recumbent buddies have joined the team, but because I've seen firsthand the debilitating effects of multiple sclerosis. You see, Bob's wife, Gerry, has secondary progressive MS and has been confined to a wheelchair for the past eleven years.
Turtle and I first met Bob and Gerry in 2002, and each year we've seen Gerry lose a little bit more of her mobility and strength to the effects of MS. She's a lively, outgoing woman who handles her disease with grace and courage, but it's tragic to see her increasingly become a prisoner of her own body.
Then there are our friends Barb and Joe, another couple who both suffer from MS. Joe was diagnosed first, and was already using a motorized wheelchair to get around, by the time we met him. Barb is able to walk using a cane, but has an entirely different set of symptoms than Joe's.
MS is a wasting disease that presents itself differently in each of those afflicted with it, and it takes away dignity and mobility. If I can do a little something to help by just riding my bike—because I can ride my bike—then I'm in.
But I need your help. If you feel, as I do, that finding a cure for MS is a worthy cause, I hope you'll help me to meet my fundraising goal by sponsoring me in this year's MS 150. It's easy to make your donation online, and it's tax deductible. It doesn't even have to be a lot of money. $10? $5? Every little bit helps. And if you know others who might be interested in helping out, please refer them to this posting or to my official MS 150 donation page.
Thanks, and God bless you.
No blog for the weary. Or wicked. Whatever.
Hi gang! Remember me? I'm the guy who used to post here with annoying regularity* in those halcyon days before my employer got bought out, I got assigned to a different development group, and I was issued a laptop computer as a perk** of my new position.
It's not that I don't think of you guys. I do. Weird and snark-worthy things are happening to me on a regular basis, but by the time I get to a computer out of sight of the surveillance cameras I'm either too tired to post or the memory cells that held the anecdote have been trod beneath the hobnailed boots of some XML transformation or the eleventy-seventh fruitless e-mail exchange between yours truly and a QA tester to whom I'm unable to convey even the simplest of technical concepts. It's not the first time I've wished I had taken Hindi in high school – or kept a better polish on my Spanish, at least.
Turtle and I are doing okay. She's still looking for a job and trying to keep me de-stressed. I'm trying to take advantage of the occasionally unseasonably warm day to sneak out for a training ride on my bike. The trips to the cardiologist were a bit discouraging, but he's not prepared to crack me open just yet. I'm to continue doing what I've been doing, though it has been suggested that I do what I've been doing at a somewhat reduced level of intensity. Riding for a couple hours at 90% of my maximum heart rate is not a great idea, apparently.
Things at work are pretty good, too. Sure, the hours are longer, the cubicles smaller and completely exposed, and the folks holding the purse strings are so tight that I have to make a show of sneezing all over my stuff to keep it from disappearing; but the work I'm doing now is interesting and even kind of fun. My new teammates are good guys and we have some laughs. One of the guys looks like Kevin James' XL (as opposed to XXXL) brother and has a phone with a Banana Phone ring tone. When he gets a call, we all jump up and dance around. Okay... I get up and dance around while the other guys look at me like I've forgotten my meds. Sometimes, I fire up the Banana Phone video*** through my laptop speakers and watch while Kevin James XL scrambles to figure out where he's left his phone. It's a hoot.
Last week, I had a weird dream that was going to share with you guys, but I didn't get to it in time. Now all I can remember about it was that someone I knew (I don't know who, only that I knew her) showed up at my work wearing a Hilary Clinton mask and wanting to discuss her “sweater puppies”. Probably just as well that it's slipped my mind. I've had about all I can stomach of The Hilmeister and all the rest of those gasbags vying for the office of Commander in Chief.
* But that's another topic entirely. Frankly, I'd rather discuss politics. Or have a root canal.
** Read, “Now that you can take your development environment with you, we'd like you to soldier on after you've completed your 9½-12 hours at the office. Yeaah... that'd be great.”
*** A retooled knock-off of the most excellent Badger Song.
It's not that I don't think of you guys. I do. Weird and snark-worthy things are happening to me on a regular basis, but by the time I get to a computer out of sight of the surveillance cameras I'm either too tired to post or the memory cells that held the anecdote have been trod beneath the hobnailed boots of some XML transformation or the eleventy-seventh fruitless e-mail exchange between yours truly and a QA tester to whom I'm unable to convey even the simplest of technical concepts. It's not the first time I've wished I had taken Hindi in high school – or kept a better polish on my Spanish, at least.
Turtle and I are doing okay. She's still looking for a job and trying to keep me de-stressed. I'm trying to take advantage of the occasionally unseasonably warm day to sneak out for a training ride on my bike. The trips to the cardiologist were a bit discouraging, but he's not prepared to crack me open just yet. I'm to continue doing what I've been doing, though it has been suggested that I do what I've been doing at a somewhat reduced level of intensity. Riding for a couple hours at 90% of my maximum heart rate is not a great idea, apparently.
Things at work are pretty good, too. Sure, the hours are longer, the cubicles smaller and completely exposed, and the folks holding the purse strings are so tight that I have to make a show of sneezing all over my stuff to keep it from disappearing; but the work I'm doing now is interesting and even kind of fun. My new teammates are good guys and we have some laughs. One of the guys looks like Kevin James' XL (as opposed to XXXL) brother and has a phone with a Banana Phone ring tone. When he gets a call, we all jump up and dance around. Okay... I get up and dance around while the other guys look at me like I've forgotten my meds. Sometimes, I fire up the Banana Phone video*** through my laptop speakers and watch while Kevin James XL scrambles to figure out where he's left his phone. It's a hoot.
Last week, I had a weird dream that was going to share with you guys, but I didn't get to it in time. Now all I can remember about it was that someone I knew (I don't know who, only that I knew her) showed up at my work wearing a Hilary Clinton mask and wanting to discuss her “sweater puppies”. Probably just as well that it's slipped my mind. I've had about all I can stomach of The Hilmeister and all the rest of those gasbags vying for the office of Commander in Chief.
* But that's another topic entirely. Frankly, I'd rather discuss politics. Or have a root canal.
** Read, “Now that you can take your development environment with you, we'd like you to soldier on after you've completed your 9½-12 hours at the office. Yeaah... that'd be great.”
*** A retooled knock-off of the most excellent Badger Song.
27 January, 2008
Ghosts in Tri-X
Circa 1981. Shot with an Olympus OM-1N on Tri-X (and a tri-pod)No mullet, like the ones currently vying for validation over at Emma's place, but lordy lou did I ever need a haircut. And a competent dermatologist. And a fingernail clipper.
My instructor gave me a C+ on this project, noting on the back of the photo that I hadn't printed it dark enough (a shortcoming I've corrected in the version you see here).* The dramatically-lighted result of our assignment to photograph an egg fared much better and received an A-. It was voted Best of the Day by the other members of the class. Maybe it will pop up one of these days, as well.
* Speaking of corrections, check out the more dramatic post-processed version I did for The Dictionary of Image.
15 January, 2008
Contemplating contentment
I've never put much stock in a lot of the psychological manure thought up by the classical psychologists. Although Carl Jung always struck me as being less full of crap than many, the notion of synchronicity sure seems like a large wheelbarrow load of the stuff. And yet when, two days after posting my album cover made from a photo of a classic Rolls Royce, I was tailgated home by a late model Phantom, “synchronicity” was the first word that came to mind. I'll leave off repeating the next few; I hate being tailgated, and I like to try to keep this blog under the PG-14 wire.
Anyway, with that huge silver grille looming in my rear view, I pondered what sorts of wrong choices I might have made in my life that had led the guy in the Rolls to be driving what he was driving and me to be driving what I was driving. The thought occurred to me that if he didn't get off my bumper before the next time the driver in front of me randomly applied her brakes, I might find myself a bit nearer to being able to afford a Rolls – but I digress. I imagined I knew where he'd eventually turn (north into the neighborhoods of sprawling mansions and two-acre lots in Fairview) and wondered to myself what sort of work he must do (if any). Was he married with a family? Were they happy, or did they only put up with their workaholic husband/father because it was a lifestyle choice? Could he afford all of those fancy things, or was he in hock up to his eyeballs, developing an ulcer while chugging Dewar's and agonizing over how to stay afloat and keep the IRS at bay?
It was about that time that we came to an intersection where we parted ways – he turning north toward Beverly Hills Fairview and I heading south toward where my loving wife and kittens waited in our unpretentious, warm, dry home to welcome me after my day at the software mill. After I'd had a chance to relax in my humble but comfortable chair, we'd thank God for our many blessings and have a simple but satisfying dinner. We'd clear away the dishes, washing some by hand and tossing the rest in the fancy dish washing contraption, and then we'd settle in to watch a movie on our new flat-screen TV and enjoy the luxury of deep bass and crisp surround stereo from the new receiver and speakers I installed over the weekend.
And I'd realize that I didn't want the Rolls Royce (I love my Dorian); the house with ten bedrooms, five baths, two kitchens, and a media room with theater seating; the alcoholic trophy wife and avaricious snob-spawn; and certainly not the financial headaches. I realized, in that moment, that when I stopped long enough to realize it... I'm content with how green the grass is (or isn't, at this time of year) in my own yard.
Anyway, with that huge silver grille looming in my rear view, I pondered what sorts of wrong choices I might have made in my life that had led the guy in the Rolls to be driving what he was driving and me to be driving what I was driving. The thought occurred to me that if he didn't get off my bumper before the next time the driver in front of me randomly applied her brakes, I might find myself a bit nearer to being able to afford a Rolls – but I digress. I imagined I knew where he'd eventually turn (north into the neighborhoods of sprawling mansions and two-acre lots in Fairview) and wondered to myself what sort of work he must do (if any). Was he married with a family? Were they happy, or did they only put up with their workaholic husband/father because it was a lifestyle choice? Could he afford all of those fancy things, or was he in hock up to his eyeballs, developing an ulcer while chugging Dewar's and agonizing over how to stay afloat and keep the IRS at bay?
It was about that time that we came to an intersection where we parted ways – he turning north toward Beverly Hills Fairview and I heading south toward where my loving wife and kittens waited in our unpretentious, warm, dry home to welcome me after my day at the software mill. After I'd had a chance to relax in my humble but comfortable chair, we'd thank God for our many blessings and have a simple but satisfying dinner. We'd clear away the dishes, washing some by hand and tossing the rest in the fancy dish washing contraption, and then we'd settle in to watch a movie on our new flat-screen TV and enjoy the luxury of deep bass and crisp surround stereo from the new receiver and speakers I installed over the weekend.
And I'd realize that I didn't want the Rolls Royce (I love my Dorian); the house with ten bedrooms, five baths, two kitchens, and a media room with theater seating; the alcoholic trophy wife and avaricious snob-spawn; and certainly not the financial headaches. I realized, in that moment, that when I stopped long enough to realize it... I'm content with how green the grass is (or isn't, at this time of year) in my own yard.
12 January, 2008
Got it covered
While we're on the subject of album covers, check out the fun they're having over at Flickr: The LP portraits Pool.
10 January, 2008
Fantasy band meme
Via Gwynne via Eric via... aw hell, you get the idea. The idea behind this meme is to take three somewhat random bits of content and create from them a fictitious band, album, and album cover (or CD insert, if you must).
Here are the rules:
Finally, here's Even If It's Wrong, the latest (and only) release by The Boshin War, which fictitiously debuted at #10.
The base image of the Rolls Royce is here. My random Wikipedia article was about The Boshin War. “Even if it's wrong” was my random quote fragment. Unfortunately, I didn't think to make note of the whole thing or who said it.
Here are the rules:
- Visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band. - Visit http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the last quote on the page is the title of your album. - Visit http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/The third picture on the page is your album cover.
Finally, here's Even If It's Wrong, the latest (and only) release by The Boshin War, which fictitiously debuted at #10.
The base image of the Rolls Royce is here. My random Wikipedia article was about The Boshin War. “Even if it's wrong” was my random quote fragment. Unfortunately, I didn't think to make note of the whole thing or who said it.
01 January, 2008
On the books for 2008
I know what some of you are thinking: “Foo never writes about riding anymore. So he had a crash and wrecked his shoulder. So what? It's cycling, not rowing.”Well, to these naysayers I'd just like to retort, “Nyehhhh!”
Thanks to the prompting of Squirrel Bait (remember her from last year's MS 150), a sizeable contingent from last year's team and one new member hit the road at 1pm to log our first 20 miles of 2008.
For those of you who like your images a bit more amusing, try on this recent submission to the Dictionary of Image for size. It's been PhotoShopped a little, but the only deviations from reality were the addition of the definition text and a bit of texturing. This water tower for the town of Bourbon, Missouri, is the real deal. Kind of adds a whole new meaning to the expression, “There must be somethin' in the water”, doesn't it?
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The bad news: I can only send e-mail from my Road Runner e-mail accounts using SMTP from my home computers. When I'm at work (which is...
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Bret 's comments about unlikely musical pairings reminded me of a CD I heard about from an old Fidonet acquaintance. It's called Wh...
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Lots going on, some of it noteworthy, not much of it particularly entertaining. Still, the company I work for completed its "merger...
