Gag Gifts

You can never really go wrong with joke Christmas gifts. Nothing shows somebody that you care quite like, for example, wrapping up a half-eaten bologna sandwich and giving it to them.

This year I received two gag gifts; a robotic fish and a Blobimal. (Just writing that sentence made me smile.)

The robotic fish is plastic with batteries. Once it’s placed in water, its tail automatically begins to flit about, propelling the fish along and creating the very realistic illusion to the untrained eye that some mad scientist has brought to life a plastic fish, one that can’t see and keeps repeatedly bumping into things.

Blobimals are a perfect example of how people will buy just about anything. They consist of a blob of a green, clay-like substance, along with several plastic monster parts, such as eyes, mouth, arms, and legs. The idea is to mold the blob into whatever shape you want and then attach the monster pieces to it. This leaves you with something that’s supposed to be a monster, but which instead resembles a booger with random body parts sticking out.

But it gets even better. Once a Blobimal is made, it slowly melts overnight, turning the monster into a deformed puddle of goo. My guess is that you’re supposed to laugh at the monster’s misery, which seems to me like an indictment of our society if entertainment can be derived in such a fashion. (Monsters have feelings too!) Anyway, after the monster melts, you can start all over again and build and melt it as many times as you’d like. (Unless, of course, it goes through the wash and ruins several pairs of pants, in which case the monster is probably in for something much worse than melting, courtesy of whoever’s in charge of doing the laundry.)

Needless to say, I really enjoyed receiving these items. The problem with joke Christmas gifts, however, is that once they’ve been opened and the laughter has died down, you’re usually left with something that’s unusable and just takes up space. In a best case scenario, you might be able to re-gift it the next year and start a cycle of the same present making its way through the family year after year. However, if it isn’t re-giftable, you basically have to store it for an appropriate amount of time, so as not to seem insensitive, and then throw it away.

This year, however, I’ve decided to get some real use out of my joke presents. Luckily, I received a small fish bowl along with my robot fish. Realizing that my living quarters could use some classing up, I flipped the batteries upside down so they continued to weigh down the fish without activating it, and now it hangs out in its little bowl on top of my fridge, always on duty and ready to chastise me for a lack of willpower if I’m rummaging around for a snack at 3:00 a.m.

“Do you really need another piece of cheesecake?”

As for my Blobimal, the instructions say to build a monster and take before and after pictures, and by golly, that’s just what I did. Perhaps this will turn into a whole series, or maybe this will be it, but either way, I now present to you Leprosy Monster, before and after!

 “Must….reach…arm…”

“You know, this is kinda comfortable. Maybe I’ll just stay here.”

Thanks to those who were responsible for my joke gifts! (You know who you are.) Because of you, I’m now one step closer to everybody thinking I’m crazy! Hooray!

Wrinkles

Note: I’m not really sure where this came from; just some random idea I had at some point, I guess. It doesn’t really fit into the general feel of this blog, and I’ve been somewhat hesitant to post it. However, maybe it’s time for something a bit different anyway, especially considering that it’s the Christmas season.

The room was warm and cozy, and it smelled like cinnamon. The old woman sat on a faded brown couch, thumbing through a gardening magazine.

A little girl bounded into the room. “Read me a story?”

The old woman put down the magazine and smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask,” she said. “Now run along and get us a book.”

“Okay!”

The old woman’s granddaughter scurried off to another room, her blonde pigtails bouncing like they had a life of their own. The old woman watched her go. “My, my, to have pep in my step like that again,” she murmured, shaking her head in amusement.

The little girl reappeared moments later, a battered book with a picture of a puppy on its cover clutched tightly in her hands. “This one,” she announced happily.

The old woman held out her arms, and the little girl scrambled up into her lap. She wiggled about until she found a comfortable sitting position and then handed the book to her grandmother.

The old woman eyed it for moment before innocently asking, “Do you think that Peter Puppy will make it home for Christmas this time around?”

The little girl twisted her head back and laughed. “Grandma, he always makes it home!”

“Well you never know. Maybe this time it’ll turn out different, so I think we’d better find out.”

“Yeah! Let’s!”

The old woman flipped the book open to the first page. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a little hand on her cheek.

 

“Grandma?”

“Yes?”

“Why is your face so bumpy?”

“Bumpy?”

“Yes, bumpy.” The little girl ran her hand over the old woman’s cheek, tracing the rough contours of her skin.

The old woman chuckled. “Those are wrinkles.”

“Oh.” The little girl frowned. “Why do you have them?”

“It just happens to people when they get older.”

“Oh.” She frowned again. “But why?”

The old woman opened her mouth to speak, but she found she had no answer.

“Grandma,” the little girl persisted, “Why do people get wrinkles?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Can you try?”

“Well…” The old woman’s voice trailed off as she looked up at the ceiling, her brow furrowed.

The little girl studied the old woman intently. “Grandma?”

“Hold on.”

A few moments later, the old woman looked down to the little girl. “You know what? Maybe I will try to explain it.”

“Okay!”

“You see,” the old woman said, pulling the little girl closer, “a wrinkle means that you love somebody.”

The little girl scrunched up her nose. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You have lots of wrinkles.” The little girl traced a finger over the old woman’s cheek. “Here, here, and here!”

“That means I love a lot of people.”

“Like who?”

“Pick one and I’ll tell you who.”

The little girl traced a wrinkle on the old woman’s forehead. “This one.”

“That’s for your grandfather.”

“It is?”

“Yes, and I’ll bet there are a few more up there, too. Those are for your mom and your dad.”

The little girl, her mouth open wide, examined the old woman’s forehead and nodded. “There is,” she whispered. She pointed to a line on the old woman’s cheek. “What about this one?”

“That one?”

“Yeah!”

“That one’s for you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“I got that wrinkle the day you were born.”

“Wow,” breathed the little girl.

“And the rest of them are for everybody else in the family and some of my dear friends, too. I could tell you about them all, but it’d take a long time and we’d never get to the story.”

“We probably wouldn’t,” agreed the little girl. “There sure are a lot of them!”

The old lady chuckled. “Should we get back to the book?”

The little girl didn’t reply. Instead, she rubbed her hands on her own cheeks. “Why don’t I have any wrinkles?” she asked. “I love people too!”

The old woman leaned in and kissed the little girl on the forehead. “I’m sure you do,” she said, “but wrinkles won’t come until you get a little bit older.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll appreciate them more.”

“But what if you don’t love anybody at all?”

“Then you’ll never get wrinkles. You never want to be an old woman without wrinkles.”

The little girl smiled. “I’ll bet I’ll have lots of wrinkles when I grow up! More than even you!”

The old woman laughed. “I hope you do.”

The little girl pointed to the middle of her forehead. “I’ll get one right here for you!”

“You will?”

“Uh-huh!”

“That’s wonderful!”

“And there’ll be another one for Grandpa right above it.”

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear it.”

The little girl, finally satisfied, returned her focus to the book. “Read, Grandma!”

“All right.”

A short time later, a man walked into room, just as the little girl was sliding off the old woman’s lap. “So,” he said, “Grandma got to read you a story, did she?”

“Yes!”

“Did you thank her?”

“Yes!”

“Good job.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“I can’t wait ‘til I get wrinkles!”

The Impulse Table

Have you ever purchased anything at the grocery store from the impulse table set up right where you walk in? I never have, and it’s for a couple of reasons:

First, it’s sort of insulting howthe grocery store management thinks they can make me buy things based solely upon proximity. I mean, how lazy and out of shape do they think I am? (“Thank goodness, I can fill up my basket right here! I’m already breathing hard from walking across the parking lot, and I'm pretty sure I’d collapse if I had to go much further!”)

Second, they never even sell anything good at this table, anyway. For example, during the various holiday timeframes, they’ll try to push holiday related items, but only of the nasty variety, such as stale Christmas cookies with nothing on them but about three sprinkles; two green and one red. If it isn’t a holiday timeframe, they’ll just put out bakery that’s, at a minimum, one day old, in the hopes that somebody will be stupid enough to buy it. (“Well, these donuts may be rock hard and could very well give me food poisoning, but they’re still half off! Score!”)

I’m pretty sure that I’ll never buy anything from this table, out of sheer principle alone, even if it was something that I desperately needed and it came at a reasonable price. (“Even though I’m losing blood at an alarming rate from this gaping puncture wound, I’m sure as heck not going to buy these bandages! Do they think I’m the kind of sucker who’ll just grab the first ones he sees? I’d better see what else they have, assuming I don’t pass out!”)

Before the snow flies, they also always put flimsy shovels, along with hats and gloves, in this general area. However, even if a major blizzard was bearing down on me, and I had no shovel or hat or gloves, I'd still never buy these things from a grocery store, as it'd pretty much be an admission that I’m a total moron incapable of the slightest amount of foresight. (“Whoa! It’s snowing in December! Who’d have ever thought this would happen? I better get a hideous hat and gloves that are so thin I can see right through them, along with a plastic shovel that’ll break after two or three uses, and I better do it right now!”)

Maybe I’m just stubborn and don’t like being given obvious hints at what I should buy. In fact, I’d probably be much more likely to buy three-day old bakery if it were in the back of the store and labeled with a sign that read: “Purchase At Your Own Risk! This Stuff Is Old And Probably Tastes Like Dirty Socks!” (“Tell me not to buy it, huh? I’ll show them! Tastes like dirty socks, huh? Heck, it’ll be an improvement over my meat loaf, anyway!”)

I guess it boils down to this: If you want to make me do something, the last thing you want to do is hint at it. For example, if you think that the quality of this blog has been consistently going downhill, and that I should really put more effort into it, what you wouldn’t want to do is add a comment to this post that says, “Just some constructive criticism: Your stuff is terrible! If it were food, it’d taste like dirty socks! Try to do better, will ya?”

Instead, you’d have a much better chance if you employed reverse psychology and posted something like, “This blog is of some of the highest quality I’ve ever encountered! There’s no need to ever try and make it any better, since it’s already perfect! In fact, I don’t know how I ever lived before I found it!” Something like this would be sure to elicit a response from me such as, “So they think I’ve peaked, huh? I’ll show them! I’ll double my efforts and start devoting up to fifteen, perhaps even seventeen, minutes a week on this!”

Go ahead and post that, if you feel you must. I promise I won’t be offended.

Oh Christmas Spirit, Where Art Thou?

I’ll admit that I’m currently struggling to get into the Christmas Spirit, despite the Herculean efforts of the radio stations that have been playing Christmas music nonstop since early November. This really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, however, since I’m a guy, and guys aren’t required to get into the Christmas spirit until Christmas Eve, when they do all of their shopping, if ever. Still, I wouldn’t be against it if it happened to me a bit earlier.

I think a lot of it has to do with there being no snow yet here in the Twin Cities. To me, brown, wilting grass just doesn’t scream out Christmas the way that a good old fashioned U.P. blizzard does. Heck, I don’t think it’d even be enough if Santa himself was outside mowing it. (“How did this happen? I thought I had elves to do this kind of stuff! I never should’ve have let them unionize!”)

Sadly, I'm still not feeling the urge to watch It’s A Wonderful Life, which is a must for the Christmas season. This is because it’s the only place where you can not only see the worst special effects in terms of angels conversing with each other ever, but also where you can watch a 38 year old Jimmy Stewart play a man roughly eighteen years younger than that. (“For Christmas I’d like a new hip and a hearing aid.”)*

I guess I could try and force the issue. For example, I could eat more candy canes, which would still have its benefits even if it didn’t get me into the Christmas Spirit. Or I could put up my tree. Or I could walk around saying “Ho-ho-ho” until somebody called the cops to take me to a mental rehabilitation center. Still, none of that seems right. The Christmas Spirit is a fickle thing, and it isn’t going to hit you until it’s good and ready to. So, until it does, I’ll just have to, as they say, keep on keeping on.

Plus, you never know. Maybe I’ll get run over by a reindeer soon. If that doesn’t do it, then I don’t know what will.

*Despite my smart alec attitude, I do dig this movie.

The Fall Of 'Epic'

It seems that we’re losing the word ‘epic’ the same as we lost ‘unbelievable’.

I really don’t know when we lost ‘unbelievable’, but I'm quite certain that it had to do with broadcasters overusing it during sporting events. Sometime along the way, any play slightly above average began being referred to as ‘unbelievable’, to the point where the word has now lost all of its meaning:

“A routine ground ball to second base! Unbelievable!”

“He’s got a clear path to the basket and gently lays it in! Unbelievable!”

“He runs a slant and gains five yards! Unbelievable!”

If anything, the overuse of the word ‘unbelievable’ makes the players seem horribly incompetent, like it’s miracle they can even execute an average play as opposed to just falling over and mumbling incoherently.

And now the same thing is happening to ‘epic’, whose dictionary definition is as follows:

1. noting or pertaining to a long poetic composition, usually centered upon a hero, in which a series of great achievements or events is narrated in elevated style
2. heroic; majestic; impressively great
3. of unusually great size or extent

So, based on these definitions, your meal was not ‘epic’, no matter how many times you posted pictures of it on Facebook. For a meal to be epic, it would have to last for several days and consist of multiple courses that included various hot peppers that would kill a normal person.

A baseball game that goes ten innings is not ‘epic’. Get back to me when you get over twenty-five.

The concert you went to was not ‘epic’. Maybe it would be in the running if it lasted for a full day and consisted of a dozen headlining acts, none of whom got arrested or had a temper tantrum and stomped off of the stage so they could then complain viaTwitter about how they don't get any respect.

‘Epic’ should be used sparingly, only in cases when it’s clearly deserved.

The move Braveheart is epic.
The 1980 Olympic U.S. hockey team win over the Soviet Union was epic.
Man landing on the moon was epic.

Think of it this way, what word do we have that’s grander than ‘epic’? What word is the next step up from it? What are we going to say when something truly epic happens? We’ll no longer be able to use ‘epic’ to describe it, because it's been so diluted that it won’t truly capture the magnitude of the event. What does that leave us with? ‘Super-epic’? ‘Epic Squared’? ‘Epic Cubed’? Ugh.

Unfortunately, I think that we’re already past the point of being able to save ‘epic’. Our only hope is to come up with a brand new word to take its rightful place, one that isn’t terrible, like my above suggestions.

Any ideas?

Trotting With Turkeys

I signed up for the first ever Copper Country Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving Day for several reasons:

1)      It was free.

2)      I figured that I’d feel less guilty about consuming an utterly ridiculous amount of food later on if I ran enough to burn off a quarter of a piece of pumpkin pie first.

3)      It was free.

4)      I kind of hoped there would be a classic U.P. blizzard, which would leave us all running in two feet of snow with almost zero visibility, not sure if we were passing snowmen or men covered in snow. (I’m not sure why I was hoping for this, mind you. Perhaps because it would make a fun story to tell afterwards.)

5)      It was free.

6)      This was my first turkey trot, and I was harboring hope that there would actually be turkeys trotting about with us. I mean, why else would it be named that? They wouldn’t get ones hopes up with promises of turkeys just to crush them, would they?

7)      It was free.

My training consisted entirely of trying to remember to bring my running shoes with me from Minnesota, which I managed to accomplish while only having to turn back once. It was a good plan, and I may incorporate it into future training.

On the morning of Thanksgiving, I rolled out of bed, almost tasting the upcoming feast of turkey, stuffing, and pie. An almost overwhelming urge to not exercise any more than raising a fork up to my mouth almost derailed me, but I was able to fight it off, mainly by thinking of trotting around with turkeys.

When I arrived at the sight of the race, at around 8:40 in the morning, I quickly realized that the demographic of the event was broken down as follows:

Wives of husbands who were out hunting: 98%
Other: 2%

Now I’ll admit that this isn’t hard data, just my own primitive reckoning, but judging by the amount of complaining about toilet seats being left up, I think that it’s pretty darn accurate.

It was a perfect day for a run. The weather was very mild, with no hint of a blizzard in sight.

A little disappointed that I wasn’t seeing any turkeys, much less turkeys trotting about, the event kicked off, and I was on my way.

No times were being kept, as it was all for fun, so the “race” quickly turned into a social event more than anything else, with people catching up to each other, chatting, then going on their separate ways. I tried to fit in with the demographic by trying to swap recipes and discussing shoes, but it didn’t really work out to well, since everybody already knew how to make toast.

Somewhere during the last mile, I gave up on the hope of there being any turkeys present. Talk about false advertising! Already discouraged by this stunning turn of events, I then encountered a hill with a roughly forty-five percent incline that stretched on for about eighteen miles, which is a little weird considering the fact that the course was only 3.2 miles, but physics has never been my forte, so I just tried to power on through it.

On this hill, the friendly chatting pretty much stopped, and all of the runners who were expecting a fun, casual jog, including myself, were now sucking wind and giving thanks for escalators and elevators as means to conquer various ascents in other facets of their lives.

Eventually, I made it up the hill and finished the run, driven on mainly by the realization that if I collapsed, my mother probably wouldn’t be too excited to bring me a plate of turkey dinner to wherever I was still lying, gasping for breath.

After that, there's not much more to tell, and I was soon on my way back home, making a beeline towards more caloric intake than a dozen turkey trots could ever hope to overcome.

Overall, it was a worthwhile and fun experience, one that I’d consider doing again, especially since I’d know what to expect, which definitely wouldn't include real turkeys. But hey, as long as it’s still free, right? Plus, maybe next year it’ll be a good blizzard. Then I’d have a lot to write about.

The Rigors Of Small Business Ownership

I’ve just learned several lessons that I’d now like to share with you, so as to keep you from making the same mistakes that I did. If you later feel the need to thank me, your gratitude can be expressed in a monetary fashion, or with baked goods.

I’d just picked up my mail, and I noticed that I'd received something from a local Dodge/Jeep/Ram dealership. Usually, I never read mail like this, but on a whim I tore the letter open. The first line read as follows: “From one small business owner to another, I am contacting you today about the…”

That’s as far as I got before my head exploded.

Wait, I’m a small business owner? When did this happen? Was it on that one Saturday night I still don’t remember very well? Or did somebody drop their small business on the sidewalk and it got stuck to my shoe when I later passed by?

What is my small business? What do I produce? I hope it’s not golf clubs, because I don’t know a thing about producing golf clubs! Or pacemakers, or industrial fans, or greeting cards! Oh boy, unless my small business makes semi-edible toast, I’m in big trouble here!

Does my small business have a cool name? If not, how hard is it to change a business name? I’ll bet it’s a lot of paperwork. I hate paperwork!

Do I have any employees? If so, how many? Will I be able to walk that fine line of being a no-nonsense executive while still being able to connect to my workers on a human level?

Does my small business have a vision? If so, can I change it? If so, how could my small business possibly succeed when its new vision would most likely focus exclusively on taking vacations and napping?

Do I have a corporate headquarters? Do I have my own office? Is it a corner office, with a beautiful view of some city skyline? Do I have a huge desk? Can I put my feet up on that desk all day and smoke cigars?

Wait, do I need to wear suits all of the time? I only own one suit, and it’s too big! Where can I get more suits? Or can I just change the dress code? What would that dress code be? Could it include tank tops and not be considered tacky?

As you can see, this was a quite stressful several seconds of my life. Then I read a little further down in the letter, where it stated this: “If you are a small business owner, you qualify to receive the enclosed…”

If I'm a small business owner?

My head unexploded, and my stress levels immediately fell to their prior levels. What a relief! I didn't own a small business after all!

After I swore at the misleading letter for several minutes, life went back to normal, and the strain of leading a small business through today's murky economic waters ended.

This leads me to the lessons that I learned. They are as follows:
1.)    Never open junk mail from Dodge/Jeep/Ram dealerships.
2.)    If you do, read them all the way through before freaking out.

These two lessons should definitely be directly applicable to you at some point in your future, and it’s my pleasure to have lent you a helping hand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare out of a window wistfully. I miss my office with the city skyline and the desk that I used to put my feet up onto while I smoked cigars. It made me feel special.

Genetics And My Radio

Many years ago, back when my current car first came into my possession, one of my initial thoughts was to take out the factory radio and put in something else, something much cooler. (Like I said, this was many years ago, back when I was worried about being cool.)

The problem was that I was fighting my genes, which are always telling me to be frugal, especially in the case of when I have a perfectly good working radio in my car already. So, due to the burden of genetics, and perhaps a little bit to my own laziness, the factory radio stayed in. Still, I was for the most part content. Sure, it would have been nice to have an auxiliary input for road trip iPod use, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. (It would keep me from doing Radio Scan, anyway.)

Just recently, however, my situation changed. What happened was, and I’m going to be using technical terms here, so please bear with me, the factory radio crapped out. Or it almost did. Basically, it would sometimes work and sometimes not, kind of like a(n) {insert your own stereotypical employment based joke here}. There wasn’t much I could do about it. Whenever it felt like stopping, it would stop, and whenever it felt like working, it would work. There wasn’t much consistency to it that I could ever determine.

For a while it was almost like a game. A good song would come on, and I’d grit my teeth, hoping that the radio wouldn’t shut down before the song ended. If I made it through the song, I’d yell out “Woo-Hoo!” If the radio died before the song was over, I’d yell out “D’oh!” Eventually, as hard as this may be to imagine, even this seemingly nonstop form of amusement began to get old, and I finally decided to defy my genes and get a new radio.

And that’s where I’m at today. My new radio has an auxiliary input and it plays mp3 discs. It’s the mp3 capability that really intrigues me. Previously, I was limited to perhaps 20 songs on any given burned CD. Now I can get well over that. For example, I made a 64 song Don Williams CD. Now, this may seem all well and good, but who on earth has the time to sit in their car and listen to 64 songs?

Now, if you’d have asked me this question a few years ago, back in my younger “heck-raising” days, I’d have enthusiastically raised my hand, since driving around aimlessly for hours on end is basically your job at that stage in your life, along with ignoring everything that your parents tell you. However, times have changed since then, and now, even when I’m in my car, there’s just as much a chance of me listening to talk radio than there is music.

So basically, while the concept of CDs with an obscene amount of songs on it is wonderful in theory, I’m probably not going to be taking much advantage of it. It almost makes me feel like I should go on a road trip, from one coast to the other, just so I can listen to various incredibly long CDs.

You know, it would be fun to see how my genes would react to that. I’d be getting full use out of my purchase, which should make them happy, but I’d also be frivolously wasting money on gas. Hmmmm…it’d almost be worth it.

Awaiting Inspiration

So it’s been pretty quiet around here.

I’m referring to, of course, my brain, which has recently abandoned me in terms of generating anything interesting to write about. I could, of course, try to write without it, but I’d hate to think what it would mean if there was no drop-off in quality. I don’t think I want to risk it. I think I’m better off not knowing.

So instead I wait for inspiration, which is kind of like waiting for a package to arrive in the mail, except for with writing there’s a much greater chance of it being lost or severely damaged in transit.

That’s not to say, however, that I’ve not been trying. In fact, I’ve tried to jumpstart my brain by feeding it a few ideas here and there, but that’s been pretty much a disaster. To prove it, here’s a rundown of the topics I’ve come up with so far:

The election – It goes without saying that this would be a terrible idea. No matter who you were rooting for, I’m pretty sure that you're sick to death of it. If you’re not, then I seriously worry for you.

A summary of the value I add to my company at my place of employment – That would be much too short.

A poem about the upcoming onset of winter – This might work, but I can’t figure out what rhymes with “hypothermia”.

A recap of that one time I had to save the universe – Ah, who am I kidding? That’d just be the plot of Star Wars, except it’d be lacking the special effects. The dialog, however, might be a tad better.

Another post about how I can’t think of anything to write about – That would be cheesy. Nobody would want to read that

Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!

For those of you who may be meteorologically challenged, winter is fast approaching us.

This isn’t the best of news for me, because I don’t do winters well. At least not Minnesota winters.

I’m a native born Yooper, so the ability to navigate gargantuan piles of road-clogging snow while avoiding rogue snowplows, all while still being able to sing along happily with the radio, is naturally infused in my DNA. However, Minnesota winters are tough for me. This is because Minnesota would much rather freeze you than it would bury you.

Snow is an enemy you can fight. You can shovel your driveway eighteen times in one day during a blizzard, just to show Mother Nature that you’re not going to give in to her. Cold, however, is a whole other animal, one that’s hard to confront directly. You may be able to fend it off, but you can’t really attack it. For some reason, even though the saying is usually associated with other subjects, the phrase “silent but violent” comes to mind.

And Minnesota is cold. Dave Barry* says that “one of Minnesota’s major industries is trying to get cars started, which is very difficult because the entire state is located inside the Arctic Circle.” You can find YouTube videos where people here throw a cup of water outside into the air, and it instantly turns into a puff of vapor. Now, some may find this scientifically interesting, perhaps even a bit humorous, but I see it simply as a warning to never go outside between November and March unless protected by enough layers of clothing to roughly double one’s body weight.

Minnesota can also be devious. As a Yooper, I spent the first twenty-odd years of my life under the impression that it was impossible in nature for the sun to shine during the winter. I was used to six months of a perpetual gray cloud cover. However, the sun does often show itself during the Minnesota winters. The problem is that it doesn’t provide any heat. It’s basically nothing more than a big tease, where it looks halfway pleasurable outside until you actually get there, and then you realize that your eyebrows have frozen and fallen off, and that your lips aren’t that far behind.

I have several mechanisms for coping with Minnesota winter.

• I stop at every gas station I encounter and buy coffee. Coffee tastes much better in the winter, so I take full advantage of this. My caffeine consumption skyrockets during this time, as does my average number of trips to the bathroom per day. It’s worth it, though, because the coffee is good, the bathrooms are typically indoors, and the indoors are typically warm. That’s a win-win in my book.
• I pretend that I’m going to use the extra time indoors to expand my cooking repertoire, but I never actually do. For some reason, I find that comforting.
• I catch up on my reading. If winter lasts too long, this might stretch out to having to re-read every Garfield comic ever produced.
• I listen to Hawaiian music with the heat blasting while I sway softly to the music. Ha ha! Just kidding! As far as you know.

The first part of winter actually isn’t that bad. This lasts from the time the Lions start losing football games up until New Years Day. During this time, there’s always something to look forward to, such as Thanksgiving or Christmas or eating enough home-baked goods during those two occasions to give birth to several new chins.

Once January rolls around, however, it’s a whole new ballgame, and the bottom completely falls out. There’s no getting around it, this is when a person just has to quit their whining, suck it up, and slog on through, no matter how many times their eyebrows freeze and fall off. (Either that or remember to have scheduled a tropical vacation for all of February.)

Eventually, right before insanity begins to set in, spring finally arrives. By this time, I’m about as sick of coffee as a person can be, I never want to see another book again, Garfield is no longer humorous, and I’ve developed a strong dislike for Hawaiian music.

I cackle happily when I see the ice rinks melting, even though that could very well be an offense punishable by death here in Minnesota. I gleefully watch as the temperatures inch back upwards to near-habitable levels. The local deer population take off their long underwear. My eyebrows grow back, and I fall to my knees in the beautiful new grass to celebrate the birth of a new season.

Then I get a tick on me.

Stupid warm weather.

*If you haven’t read Dave Barry, you should.

Blogiversary Q&A

Q. Um, is this thing on?
A. I think so.

Q. So, are you ready?
A. As ready as I’ll ever be.

Q. All right. For starters, is your three year blogiversary post really going to be one of those cheesy fictitious question and answer interview sessions?
A. Absolutely. Don’t judge me.

Q. Does it mean that since you’ve sunk to this new low you’re out of interesting things to write about, and consequently your blog is about to jump the proverbial shark?
A. I’m actually pretty sure that ship sailed a long time ago.

Q. Hmm. I tend to agree with that.
A. That’s not even a question.

Q. Oh, right. Um, did you know that I tend to agree with your assessment?
A. Oh, that’s clever. Real professional.

Q. Listen buddy, I don’t have to take this from anybody! I can walk out at any time! What, do you wanna interview yourself, or what?
A. I actually kind of think I am.

Q. Oh, yeah. This whole thing is kind of weird, isn’t it?
A. Yup.

Q. Well, shall we try it again?
A. Sure.

Q. So, three years, huh?
A. That’s barely a question.

Q. But was it technically a question?
A. I suppose, technically...

Q. Then do you think that perhaps you should be more focused on answering what has just been established to be a question instead of berating the interviewer?
A. Yes, I suppose I probably should. Sorry. I don’t do many interviews. Hmm, three years…Three whole years…So many posts, so little useful information.

Q. Perhaps you'd like to take us behind the scenes of the creation of a typical blog posting, from inspiration to finished product, so we can all get an in-depth understanding of what it’s like to work behind Curly’s desk?
A. Um, no.

Q. Are you sure?
A. Yes.

Q. All right then. Do you think that you could have spent the last three years doing something more productive than maintaining this blog?
A. Most likely.

Q. Do you regret not doing so?
A. Heck no. This is the easiest job in the world. And also the lowest paying.

Q. Ha! That’s classic Curly humor, right there.
A. Sorry to be a wet blanket, but again, that’s not a question.

Q. Party pooper. How about this then, maybe I use an ‘O’ next time, instead of a ‘Q’? You know, for ‘Observation’?
A. So it would be an observation and response session, instead of a question and answer session?

Q. Actually, that’s a question on your point, not an answer, and you used an ‘A’ for it. I think you should have used a 'Q'.
A. I’m getting confused.

Q. Me too. But yes, maybe it’d be more of an observation and response session - oh wait, I’ve already marked this as a question. Um, what do you say about that?
A. Nice save. But whatever you’d like to do. You’re the interviewer here.

O. Sweet.
R. Hey! Using an ‘O’ actually kind of works. I like it. And I used an 'R'!

O. Sweet.
R. Sweet indeed.

Q. Back to the questions. How weird is it to be arguing with yourself in this post?
A. Not as weird as one may think.

Q. But it’s still somewhat weird, right?
A. A little.

Q. With that in mind, do you think that anybody is actually still reading this, or have they all given up, wondering just what in the heck is going on?
A. They’ve probably all given up. We’ve definitely gotten off track.

Q. True. Let’s move on to the next question. Is there anybody you’d like to thank, or perhaps give a “shout-out” to?
A. Nah, I’m good.

Q. Don’t you think that your readers deserve some sort of acknowledgement for taking time out of their busy days to read your inane posting?
A. I thought we already established that nobody is still reading this, which would make that pretty much a moot point.

Q. But what if somebody didn’t get disgusted with this monstrosity of a blog post and is still reading? What if they’re scrolling through right now? There’s nothing you’d want to say to them, on this, your blogiversary?
A. That was actually three questions. Next time use three Q’s, like ‘QQQ’. But as for my readers, I thanked them last year, and nothing’s changed since then. They know where we stand.

O. That sounds like a veiled ‘thank you’ to me.
R. Think of it however you want to, Mr. Look-Into-Everything-Way-Too-Deeply.

O. Jerk.
R. Loser.

Q. Next question. Do you plan to continue this blog?
A. Yes. With Click and Clack retiring, I don’t think the American public could take another blow like that to their collective psyche.

O. Some classic Curly sarcasm there, folks!
R. {shrugs shoulders}

QQ. Do you still enjoy blogging? Or has it turned into a chore?
A. Hey, you got the multiple ‘Q’ thing right! And, yes I still enjoy it.

Q. Are you ever going to bring back your initial banner, you know, the one that actually had a picture of your desk?
A. I kind of wish I could, but I don’t have that picture anymore. Somehow I deleted it from my computer. I wonder if anybody else has it? That would be weird, but…

Q. Why did you change the banner anyway? I liked the old one.
A. I got a new desk, and I thought I should update the banner accordingly with a new picture. However, as it turns out, I’ve only got one good desk picture in me, and I used it up on my first banner. All subsequent attempts with the new desk failed miserably, and by the time I figured it out, I’d already lost the original picture.

O. Sad.
R. Yes. That was the best part of the entire blog, that’s for sure.

QQ. Any hints as to what’s coming in year four? Something to wet our proverbial whistles?
A. I dunno. More of the same junk designed to get peoples’ minds off of the real world, if only for a little while?

O. Okay. Fair enough.
R. {Does not respond}

Q. Well, I’m kind of getting bored with this whole thing. How about you?
AQ. I was bored by about the second question. Should we wrap it up?

O. Ha! An Answer/Question!
R. {beams proudly}

Q. Well, how about one last question?
A. Shoot.

Q. Could you post, one final time, the picture of a giant slug, even though there have been no documented cases of anybody actually finding it funny?
A. Absolutely.

Big Daddy, Papa Grande, And Sports

As a kid I was into sports, mainly of the professional Detroit franchise variety.

I remember rooting for Cecil “Big Daddy” Fielder who, in the pre-steroid era, belted an unheard of 51 home runs, despite the fact that it appeared he was powered entirely by chocolate chip cookies.

I remember having the window to my room open, with a radio leaned up against the screen, facing out, so I could listen to the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup Finals while I shot hoops in the driveway.

I remember marveling at Barry Sanders making the defenders trying to tackle him look like silly, and also at how the Lions failed to ever give him a quarterback who didn’t look like he was pulled off the street minutes before the game and asked to suit up:

“Ever play quarterback, son?”
“Quarterwho?”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”

I remember watching Bill Laimbeer draining three-pointers with his ridiculous over-the-head shooting form. To this day, when playing H-O-R-S-E in Eagle Harbor with my buddy Lurch, a halfcourt, over-the-head shot is referred to exclusively as a “Laimbeer”.

They were fun times, but I’ve since grown, and the world of sports has begun to take a back seat in my life. This became readily apparent to me after I intensely followed the Detroit Pistons through the 2004 postseason all the way to their improbable championship, which cumulated in an NBA Finals victory over the heavily-favored L.A. Lakers, who were going through their last season of the intense drama, “As Shaq And Kobe Turn.” After the final seconds had ticked away and the Pistons won, I sat there for a while, waiting for a moment of jubilation to hit me, but it never came. Instead, I thought, “That’s it? Huh.”

The childhood magic of following sports was gone.

Not that I don’t do it anymore, it’s just not with the same voracity. It no longer rules my world. Today, I consider myself to be a bit more mature, a tad more sophisticated, a sliver more classy, in spite of this very blog, which consists of nothing but utterly nonsensical ramblings that seem to contradict the very assertion of maturity.

Except I’m kind of lying. Not about the nonsensical ramblings, but of the whole sports voracity following thing.

You see, if I don’t guard against it, I quickly find myself getting pulled back in and reverting back to the stereotypical fan who lives and dies by his team and throws furniture across the room after a bad call goes against them. I find that I have to go cold turkey and monitor things from the internet in order to avoid this.

Case in point, the Detroit Tigers current run through the playoffs, specifically Game One of the ALCS against the New York Yankees. Like a moron, I tuned into the ninth inning, where the Tigers were up by four. At this point, Jose “Papa Grande” Valverde was called on the close out the game, despite the fact that recently he’s looked like he’s been pulled off the street minutes before the game and asked to suit up:

“Ever pitch the ninth before?”
“Pitch the whatnow?”
“You’ll get the hang of it.”

Predictably, Papa Grande played like he was actually a double agent on the Yankees payroll, and the four run lead evaporated as fast as the Yankees could circle the bases without getting dizzy, during which time I contemplated throwing furniture across the room and seeing how many swears I could string together before I ran out of breath.

So much for mature.
See ya, sophistication.
Adios to classy.

There is no in-between. I'm either detached or all in. For example, I would gladly choose to participate in any sort of outdoor activity on a Sunday afternoon a hundred times out of a hundred as opposed to watching football, but if I do find myself stuck inside with nothing else to do and a Lions game is on, I’ll soon turn into a ranting and raving lunatic who questions vehemently the entire coaching staff’s sanity for calling a draw on third and long. However, if I check the score afterwards and see that they lost a heartbreaker, I'll usually just chuckle and say, “Same ol’ Lions!”

It’s basically the worst of both worlds. I can get all riled up watching a game when it goes bad, yet when everything goes well and victory is achieved, I look around and wonder, “That’s it? Huh.”

So basically, I just need to stay away.

Quell the quarters.
Hang up the halves.
Pitch the periods.
Impound the innings.

Give me time. I’ll get the hang of it.

The Self Portrait

One thing that I’ve been trying to work on lately is enjoying the moment more.

For example, when I’m hiking and finally reach my destination, in the past I’d typically grunt, nod approvingly, maybe snap a picture or two, and then return the way I came, a string of actions that together take up about 14.5 seconds, depending on the length and heartiness of the grunt.

Now, however, if faced with that situation, my goal is to try to take some additional time to appreciate the moment, perhaps stretching things out to maybe 20 seconds or so. (Walk before you run, right?)

So, when I recently found myself at a state park overlook in southern Minnesota on a beautiful fall day, I decided to take the time to try and actually enjoy my being there. However, I quickly found out that I’m not very good at that sort of thing, and after hanging out for a bit, I got bored, and soon after the idea of a self-portrait popped into my mind.

Now, there are precious few pictures of me that exist ever since my graduation from high school. Call it my lost decade or so. This is mainly because like most guys, I hate posing for pictures. It’s awkward and unnatural, and plus sometimes I have boogers, and I’d rather not have that fact documented where it will last up until the end of time. My thinking is that if any pictures of me are to be taken, they need to be the result of something that happens naturally, and not something where I have to hold still for what feels like an eternity and yell, “Cheese!”

You’re probably now asking, why was I even thinking about a self-portrait at the state park, since it would obviously be posed, going against everything that I believe in and just expressed so eloquently in the previous paragraph? Well, as I already alluded to, I was having a hard time appreciating the moment and needed something to do. Also, I remembered that my friend Tom has never met a self-portrait that he hasn’t liked, and I figured it was high time for me to break out of my shell a bit. Plus, I determined that at least one picture of me should probably exist between the ages of 20 and 40, just for posterity.

The key to a guy self-portrait, at least in my mind, is for the subject to look introspective, yet still rugged and capable. If not, then there’s no point in even taking it. However, to do it right, it can’t have the feel of a posed self-portrait. Instead, it needs to look like somebody stumbled upon the subject during one of his rare reflective moments and quickly snapped a picture before said subject could object to it.

Here are a couple of suggestions for trying to accomplish this feat:

1.) The subject, which is, of course, yourself, is outside. Being outside adds to the competent guy aura. It’s hard to look introspective, yet still rugged and capable, while sitting in a recliner with the sports section and a Mountain Dew, unless, perhaps, the recliner is located in the forest.

2.) The subject is not looking into the camera, but is instead gazing off intently into the distance, with a hint of a frown on his face. This conveys the notion that the guy is deep in important thought, thinking manly things, such as:

“When was the last time I killed a bear?”

“Perhaps I’ll build a log cabin using nothing but my own two hands and several primitive tools.”

“Either I dig the well or rebuild the engine tonight, but not both. I need time to read several volumes of philosophy.”

3.) The subject is wearing dusty boots. This gives the impression that he is a down-to-earth and capable kind of guy who enjoys getting his hands dirty. It’s kind of like having the subject surrounded by jacks and wrenches and hammers and tow straps, but in a much more subtle manner.

4.) The subject is scruffy. Nothing adds to the competent guy factor like some good scruff. It just screams out, “Yes, I’ve been too busy to shave, which should be obvious since I’m wearing dusty boots and gazing off into the distance, but even so, I still find a way to make it all work.” However, not everybody can grow good scruff. Photoshop can help with that after the fact.

5.) The subject is wearing a winter hat. I don’t know why, but you can never go wrong with a winter hat, unless, of course, it’s the kind that Elmer Fudd wears. Then it takes a special kind of person to pull it off.

Anyway, back to the state park, where, with all of these factors in mind, I figured out the self-timer on my camera and went to work. Here’s the final result, along with several helpful notes:

Not bad, eh? Looking at it, who’d ever think that I’m a software developer? I’ll admit that it’s pretty deceptive, but a more accurate representation, such as a picture of me sleeping in my cubicle, just wouldn’t deliver the same emotional punch.

My only regret is that I wish I had a bearskin coat that I could have worn. But then again, maybe that would have been pushing the boundaries of believability a bit too far.

Well, I suppose I’d better get to working on that cabin now. I’ll probably need jacks and wrenches and hammers and tow straps.

It's The Most Horrible Time Of The Year

So as you've probably noticed, it’s election season, which probably means that one of your fondest wishes right now is that you could invent a time machine and skip over it entirely.

Ah, election season, that magical time of the year when candidates for public office -- fighting the preconceived notion of politicians being underhanded, immoral, and devious megalomaniacs only in it for their own personal gain -- do their best through various forms of propaganda to convince potential voters not that they’re actually honest and pure-of-heart individuals who are in it for the greater good of the country, but rather that their opponent is even more underhanded, immoral, and devious than they are, leaving them as the only rational choice. This is known as the Lesser Of Two Evils approach.

Fun, right?

Anyway, over the course of the election season, candidates vying for the same seat typically spend their time releasing increasingly negative advertisements about each other, where the concept of truth quickly disappears:

“Jack Smith once voted to increase his own pay, even though it was part of a bill that funded boots for our soldiers, since they were getting sick and tired of driving tanks barefoot. But still, Jack Smith voted to increase his own pay! Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Mike Brown for Congress.”

“Mike Brown was employed for a corporation that was accused of corruption and bribery forty years ago, before Mike Brown even worked there, but we’re pretty sure there’s a connection there somewhere, mainly because when Mike Brown smiles, it looks pretty darn suspicious. Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Jack Smith for Congress.”

“Oh yeah? Jack Smith once saw an old lady being mugged on the street and turned his back on her! Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Mike Brown for Congress.”

“That's nothing! Mike Brown once MUGGED an old lady on the street. And then kicked a cat! Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Jack Smith for Congress.”

"So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? Fine! Jack Smith once mugged an old lady on the street, robbed a convenience store, hotwired a car, and led the police on a forty mile chase. Then he kicked three cats! Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Mike Brown for Congress.”

“That’s nothing! Mike Brown once mugged an old lady on the street, robbed a convenience store, hotwired a car, and led the police on a forty mile chase, with an EXPIRED driver’s license! Then he burned down an animal shelter! Is that the kind of leadership we want in Washington? This ad is paid for by Jack Smith for Congress.”

This exercise in creative writing goes on and on until both candidates are essentially accusing the other of being Darth Vader and masterminding a secret, villainous organization whose only goal -- besides mugging old ladies on the street -- is total world domination, accomplished almost solely by taking away government assistance from the elderly.

Needless to say, by the end of the campaign season most people hate both candidates equally, and would gladly vote for anybody else, including a well-groomed chimpanzee or a somewhat interesting rock, just as long as they promised to pass a low to make campaign advertising illegal.

Now, with all of that being said, this is still the system that we’re stuck with, and that means that we as voters have take the high road and do what’s expected of us, which is to ignore all of the advertisements as best we can and just hope to make it through November 6^th without going insane.

At least that’s my plan.

This is my blog, and I approve of this message.

The Case Of The issing Letter

So one of the letters on y keyboard isn’t working. I’ pretty sure you can figure out which one it is. If you can’t, then perhaps reedial spelling lessons  are in order for you.

Anyway, this leaves e with an interesting, albeit slightly ausing proble.

The easiest solution would be to just get a new keyboard. However, it would also be the least fun.

Instead, I could try to fix the broken key, but knowing y past attepts at being a handyan, I’ pretty sure I’d end up setting the entire keyboard on fire. Also, I looked up how to do it online, and it consisted of about thirty-seven total steps, each ore confusing than the last. I started to read the, but I had to put a cold copress on y head and lay down for a while after getting to about step 10, as it was just too overwheling for a siple an such as yself.

I guess I could also just live with the issing key. It would be a learning experience, as I’d have to becoe very good at synonys. For any word I'd want to use that include the issing letter, I’d have to find a replaceent word or phrase with the sae eaning to use instead, but which didn’t include the issing letter. Here are soe exaples:

 issing -> unfindable
 y -> belonging to nobody else
 aybe -> perhaps
 ilkan -> dairy delivery person
 ilkshake -> a thoroughly shaken or blended drink constructed of dairy products, a flavoring syrup, and often butterfat.

Here is a saple sentence translation:

y ilkshake is issing! Who took it? aybe the ilkan! -> Belonging to nobody else, a thoroughly shaken or blended drink constructed of dairy products, a flavoring syrup, and often butterfat is unfindable! Who took it? Perhaps the dairy delivery person!

Well, aybe that’s not the best exaple, but you get the general idea.

Anyway, until I ake y decision on what the final solution will be, I think I’ll just go ahead and have soe fun with it by constructing rando sentences that look ausing because of the issing letter:

“any onths ago, y icrowave  elted because of the alicious works of a adan naed ichael.”

Ha! I crack yself up!

Adventure In Running

Typically, when you see somebody jogging, they are utilizing one of two pretty standard facial expressions:

Grim, But Determined – Their eyes are squeezed almost shut, their jaws are set, and their faces are grim masks of determination, which gives the expression its name. These people are really focused! (Or perhaps constipated. The two looks are eerily similar.) The point is, these people realize that running isn’t exactly the most fun thing in the world to do, coming in just behind wisdom teeth extraction with minimal anesthesia, but they know it’s something they need to engage in if they don’t want to have to get a pair of fat pants, and so they’re totally embracing it. Nothing will stop them! If one of their legs were to fall off, they’d just hop along on the other and curse bitterly when the run was over because they’d wish their time had been better.

Frightened and Defeated – I usually fall into this category. This is when the runner knows they’re making a huge mistake by either trying to run further than they should, or by even lacing up their shoes in the first place. “Why am I even out here?” is the thought their wide eyes and comically contorted faces seem to be expressing. “Why fight the inevitable? I don’t mind my fat pants one bit! They’re really comfortable! I’ll just say I’m big-boned!”

Now, despite these two expressions being the norm, I recently managed to incorporate a completely different one while I was out running. But it wasn’t my fault. It was Click and Clack’s.

For those of you who don’t know, Click and Clack are the hosts of Car Talk, a weekly automobile call-in show on NPR. Without going into any details, because that would be way too much like work, I’ll just say that the show can be quite amusing.

Anyway, I was listening to a podcast of it while I was running, and I hit a particularly chuckle-inducing portion.

Have you ever heard the expression not being able to chew gum and walk at the same time? Well, it turns out that holds true for me in terms of running and laughing. My brain just doesn’t have enough cognitive power to spread out amongst both tasks, which causes each to function at less than optimal levels.

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I started to smirk, which was when my brain began to struggle to keep up. I tried to stifle the laugh but failed. This is when the proverbial wheels fell off. No longer fully focused on running, I was forced to slow down, and my running form, which was never pretty to begin with, morphed into some sort of wobbling catastrophe you’d most likely associate with a man trying not to fall over while wearing stilts, all while my face screwed up into the ridiculous expression one gets when they try and fail to hold back an explosive belly laugh.

That’s a fun mental picture, isn’t it?

I’m pretty sure I was a sight to those people who drove by at that time and saw me “running” on the sidewalk. I obviously wasn’t falling into either of the two before-mentioned categories. I wasn’t grim, but determined, and I most certainly wasn’t frightened and defeated. Instead, insanity would have been the most logical conclusion: “He’s laughing and running! That doesn’t even make sense!”

Eventually, I was able to regain control and continue on in a fairly normal fashion. However, I’m now a little gun shy of listening to Car Talk while running, as the next time this happens, it might be even worse.

But then again, who really cares? It was kinda fun, and I’m sure I managed to entertain a few people in the process.

Heck, maybe I should take it another step and try to see what else happens with different types of audible stimuli. For example, I could listen to an audio book, one that’s very sad, such as Old Yeller, and then I could run and blubber at the same time. Or I could listen to a political podcast and see if I could fall asleep while running. Or I could listen to any random boy band and cringe. That would probably make me run the fastest, in an attempt to get home as soon as possible.

Utah Ho! Day 8

Vacation Log: Day 8

Cedar City – 6:48 AM

Got to sleep in! Woo-hoo!

Anyway, gearing up for Kolob Arch. If I were overdramatic, I’d say something like, “Time to rock ‘n’ roll!”

Ah, what the heck. Time to rock ‘n’ roll!

La Verkin Creek – 10:04 AM

Made it down to La Verkin Creek. (I think.) It’s been a meandering hike through the forest, much different from all of the other hikes in the desert. Now I’m sitting on a rock on the edge of the river, enjoying a drink of water. Still a ways to go until the arch.

The hike up will be great, since we’ve been steadily descending the whole time so far. D’oh!

Break time!

Kolob Arch – 11:31 AM

Yup, it’s a giant arch all right. There’s only one place to take a picture of it from, so I now have the same pic that everybody else who’s ever come here has also taken.

Everybody has this pic

I switched it up by adding the tree in w/ the pic. Maybe only 3/4 of the people who've been here have taken this picture...

There are roughly eight-million flies circling me right now. Either I smell like a landfill and they’re following me, or this is where they come to hang out every day. Maybe it’s both.

I suppose it’s time to go. About 7 miles back, mostly uphill.

Time to rock ‘n’ – never mind.

On the way back.

Interstate 15 – 2:52 PM

On the way to Salt Lake City, with the last hike in the books. (It beat the stuffing out of me.) I threw out my boots, as they had no grips left. I was getting sick of continually slipping and sliding down any incline. This wasn’t due entirely to this trip, but it sure finished them off.

Four hours until Salt Lake City. Flight back to MN early tomorrow morning.

Time to listen to Willie’s Roadhouse on XM while I still have the chance.

Interstate 15 – 4:15 PM

Walking is a challenge due to my faltering limbs. (Too much hiking) Stopped at a gas station a while back and I creaked inside. It must have been comical seeing me shuffling along, at about one-tenth of a mile and hour.

The terrain between Zion and Salt Lake City is incredibly boring. Washed out yellow for as far as the eye can see.

Salt Lake City – 8:47 PM

And so ends another vacation. It’ll be nice to get back into a routine of some sort again, even though it means the world will start turning again for me. It seems like this is ending at just the right time. There are, however, a few things I’ll miss:

1. Only shaving every three or four days
2. Laughing at everybody else as they’re going to work
3. Eating out virtually every meal of the day

My weary legs, though, aren’t going to miss a thing.

Additional Thought: Khaki has also proven himself, matching the performance of Greenie to the point where there is no clear victor. This means that both will be promoted to the rank of Chief Pair Of Hiking Pants.

Utah Ho! Day 7

Vacation Log: Day 7

Springdale – 5:25 AM

Huh. Here we go again. At least I have a gas station sandwich for breakfast this morning. MMMMMM...preservatives...

Observation Point Trail - 8:56 AM

Top of the world! Or so it feels. A little over 2 hours of climbing to get here were worth it. Looking down into Zion Canyon. I can hear and see people on Angel’s Landing, well below me. It was an eventful trip up:

1. Saw a guy climbing one of the cliffs where we got off the bus at Weeping Rock. This was just before sunrise. All that could really be seen was his light, bobbing around a little way up the sheer rock face. Lurch: “What if he meets a mountain goat? Man vs. mountain goat. Who would win? Probably the mountain goat.”

2. Some chick pitched a tent in the middle of the hiking trail and spent the night there. She was just waking up as we passed by. Not sure the point of that maneuver.

3. Stalked a deer. For me, “stalking”, to be accurate, is akin to a guy walking around w/ multiple pots and pans attached to him. The deer was tame, though, so we got almost close enough to touch. He was also a jokester. Every time I took a picture, he stuck his butt at me.

So hilarious.

 

4. Saw mountain goats way up there, on a near vertical. They dislodged several rocks, which fell down the cliff and shot across the trail in front of us at about 800 mph. Whoa. Then one of them knocked loose a stick with multiple jagged points that did the same thing. After witnessing this, we picked our spot and sprinted through the danger zone. Lurch: “We saw wildlife. And didn’t get killed.”

They're up there. Promise.

 

Zoomed in view

 

Now I sit at Observation Point, as Lurch matches wits w/ a chipmunk who’s trying to get into his backpack. As of now, they’re evenly matched.

What a great hike!

Views from the top of Observation Point

Weeping Rock Bus Stop - 11:11 AM

The mountain climber guy is still slowly making his way up. (I imagine that’s the only way to climb a mountain.) He's just a speck on the cliff. There might be two of them, actually, but it’s hard to tell. Good look guy(s)!

Almost sick of hiking. Luckily, only one hike remains, and that’s tomorrow.

Additional Lurchism, on the way back from Observation Point, where the trail follows along the side of a mountain, with a straight drop off on one side: "This is no place to do an Irish Jig."

Cedar City – 3:05PM

Made it to the next destination, which is 20 miles from Zion’s seldom used northwestern section. Tomorrow is a hike to Kolob Arch, 14 miles in total. A fitting capper to the week. At this point, after all of this hiking, I should be able to crank it out w/out even breaking a sweat. Or just collapse a few steps in. It’ll be interesting to see.

Cedar City – 9:14 PM

Nothing new to report. It just seemed like this day needed an evening update.