My life in France is here:
imfromcanada.blogspot.com
Monday, September 11, 2006
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Moving on...
Last night, for the first time in a long time, I slept in a bed in a room with air conditioning. It was only one of many wonderful moments I've experienced in the last 24 hours since moving out of the place I was living with the crazy woman. My friends, Andy and Jess, allowed me to move in for the rest of my time in Colorado. They recently bought a house that has a spare bedroom, and, well, I'm their Dupree.
It's only now that I remember how nice "creature comforts," such as air conditioning on a hot day, can really be. It's also nice to like the people with whom I live. However, my residence was contingent on my eventual departure. That being the case, yesterday I bought plane tickets to travel to France. I'll be leaving Denver at the end of August to drive back to omaha, see family and friends, and leave my car. On September 3, I'll fly to Philadelphia to visit a friend, and on September 6 I leave New York for Barcelona via Copenhagen. From Barcelona, I'll travel by train to southern France where Marie, my employer, will pick me up and take me to the estate. I'll live and work there for the next year or so.
This is, of course, contingent on my receiving a visa from the French Consulate in Los Angeles. On Monday they'll receive my application, and if things go well, I'll receive a visa in 7-10 business days. If I don't receive that visa, my plans will change dramatically, but I'll still go to Europe.
It's only now that I remember how nice "creature comforts," such as air conditioning on a hot day, can really be. It's also nice to like the people with whom I live. However, my residence was contingent on my eventual departure. That being the case, yesterday I bought plane tickets to travel to France. I'll be leaving Denver at the end of August to drive back to omaha, see family and friends, and leave my car. On September 3, I'll fly to Philadelphia to visit a friend, and on September 6 I leave New York for Barcelona via Copenhagen. From Barcelona, I'll travel by train to southern France where Marie, my employer, will pick me up and take me to the estate. I'll live and work there for the next year or so.
This is, of course, contingent on my receiving a visa from the French Consulate in Los Angeles. On Monday they'll receive my application, and if things go well, I'll receive a visa in 7-10 business days. If I don't receive that visa, my plans will change dramatically, but I'll still go to Europe.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Intolerable heat.
Today, Denver set a new record high temperature. It was 103 degrees outside. Currently, it is 92 degrees inside the apartment home I share with an insufferable, intolerable, inconceivably cheap, passive-aggressive, swimsuit-wearing, non-air conditioning-using, obsessive-compulsive, note-leaving old woman. To mitigate the high temperatures, we've opened a window and turned on a fan. That ought to take care of everything. I think I feel it cooling down already. In the interest of not making anyone nauseous, I will not include any photos with this short post.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Great Basin NP? Sure.
On top of Mt. Baker, looking south.
A few months ago my friend Andy and I were sitting in the office at the end of yet another mind-numbing exercise in futility "building" trails for Jefferson County - also known as a day at work. We were trying to kill the requisite 30 minutes of time we spend not working at the end of each day by reading back issues of Outside magazine. I happened upon an article detailing a backcountry weekend trip in Nevada's Great Basin National Park following unnamed ridges across unnamed peaks to thousand-year-old stands of Bristlecone Pine trees, the oldest known living organisms on earth today. It seemed like a good idea, so we went for it.
Some of the living ones are over 4900 years old.
As we left Denver on Wednesday, we drove into rain. Not a big deal - it probably wasn't raining 700 miles west, anyway. Well, we continued to drive in rain through Colorado, and then Utah. On Thursday, after lunch at the 'Lectrolux Cafe in Baker, Nevada, the waitress warned us about the recent rash of afternoon showers and storms blasting the park, and we shrugged our shoulders and decided that we didn't have much say in what happened and that we needed to get on our way - the park was waiting.
High-altitude Columbines.
After visiting the not-so-spectacular visitor's center, we headed up up up to the parking lot at 10,000 feet and set out on a short hike to check the local "glacier," - the only permanent ice feature in Nevada. As the skies darkened around us and thunder echoed off the brittle rock walls towering 2500 feet above our heads and lightening cracked closer and closer and rain began to fall, we decided to take shelter under a tree, and a tall one because it had more branches to block the driving rain (brilliant!). After basically being chased off the mountain, we regrouped and the words "Las Vegas" were mentioned once or twice (we were only 4 hours away), but, tragedy averted, the skies began to clear behind towering Wheeler Peak as we cooked dinner and the race was on to hike out of the basin and into the backcountry.
Sunrise against Mt Washington.
We reached the saddle as the sun set below the storms to the north, producing one of the most amazing sunsets either of us had ever witnessed. Not having much time to check the area before dark, we set up camp and went to bed. The morning, however, provided a disconcerting surprise. As Andy walked off to meet the call of nature, he stumbled upon a freshly killed deer carcass, which was uneaten. That deer had likely been killed by the only local predatory macro fauna - the mountain lion (or as we affectionately deemed it, the alpine pussy), and lions typically don't a) move very far from their kill and b) let anything threaten their hard work. Later realizing how foolish we were to inspect the kill more closely, we became much more thankful for not being killed and for the impending good weather.
The next three days were filled with long hikes up tall mountains in search of amazing views, rapid descents through deep valleys looking for life-giving water, and camping spots among thousand-year-old trees seen by only a few people lucky enough to learn about these living legends. We played Bristlecone baseball at 11,000 feet, and let me tell you, the cones really carry at that altitude. We stumbled across abandoned gold mines from the early 1900s on a failed attempt to find water. We threw rocks down thousand-foot-deep fissures in the mountains and listened closely as they caromed and echoed across the valley below. We were chased off the mountain on our final day after a desperate ascent against nature before arriving at the car as the rain drops began to fall.
This one's dead, and probably has been for a few thousand years.
We ended our stay in Nevada at the same place where we began - the 'Lectrolux Cafe in Baker. As part of our extensive and exhaustive calorie replacement therapy, we shared an appetizer of pizza before burgers, fries, slaw and, for me, and few of Alaskan Brewing Co's finest ales. I had lost nearly 10 pounds in those three days, so I felt justified in the slurpee I purchased a few miles down the road. However, I soon found that eating a slurpee and texting your friend, while driving across the "loneliest highway in the United States" at night, revealed itself to be very conducive to running over rabbits. I must say that Highway 50 is not so lonely if you are a rabbit - in fact, it is more like a singles club for strapping young thumpers. It would have been more dangerous to try NOT to hit them. (Apologies to all animal lovers, and a warning to not drive in western Utah at night.)
After not paying to camp in the Fishlake National Forest in Utah, we ended our calorie replacement therapy at Burger King for breakfast and Wendy's for lunch before strolling back home Monday afternoon to the news of endless rain in Colorado over the weekend and hopes for a greener tomorrow. All in all, things went pretty well.
Sunrise reflection against Johnson Lake with tree.
A few months ago my friend Andy and I were sitting in the office at the end of yet another mind-numbing exercise in futility "building" trails for Jefferson County - also known as a day at work. We were trying to kill the requisite 30 minutes of time we spend not working at the end of each day by reading back issues of Outside magazine. I happened upon an article detailing a backcountry weekend trip in Nevada's Great Basin National Park following unnamed ridges across unnamed peaks to thousand-year-old stands of Bristlecone Pine trees, the oldest known living organisms on earth today. It seemed like a good idea, so we went for it.
Some of the living ones are over 4900 years old.
As we left Denver on Wednesday, we drove into rain. Not a big deal - it probably wasn't raining 700 miles west, anyway. Well, we continued to drive in rain through Colorado, and then Utah. On Thursday, after lunch at the 'Lectrolux Cafe in Baker, Nevada, the waitress warned us about the recent rash of afternoon showers and storms blasting the park, and we shrugged our shoulders and decided that we didn't have much say in what happened and that we needed to get on our way - the park was waiting.
High-altitude Columbines.
After visiting the not-so-spectacular visitor's center, we headed up up up to the parking lot at 10,000 feet and set out on a short hike to check the local "glacier," - the only permanent ice feature in Nevada. As the skies darkened around us and thunder echoed off the brittle rock walls towering 2500 feet above our heads and lightening cracked closer and closer and rain began to fall, we decided to take shelter under a tree, and a tall one because it had more branches to block the driving rain (brilliant!). After basically being chased off the mountain, we regrouped and the words "Las Vegas" were mentioned once or twice (we were only 4 hours away), but, tragedy averted, the skies began to clear behind towering Wheeler Peak as we cooked dinner and the race was on to hike out of the basin and into the backcountry.
Sunrise against Mt Washington.
We reached the saddle as the sun set below the storms to the north, producing one of the most amazing sunsets either of us had ever witnessed. Not having much time to check the area before dark, we set up camp and went to bed. The morning, however, provided a disconcerting surprise. As Andy walked off to meet the call of nature, he stumbled upon a freshly killed deer carcass, which was uneaten. That deer had likely been killed by the only local predatory macro fauna - the mountain lion (or as we affectionately deemed it, the alpine pussy), and lions typically don't a) move very far from their kill and b) let anything threaten their hard work. Later realizing how foolish we were to inspect the kill more closely, we became much more thankful for not being killed and for the impending good weather.
The next three days were filled with long hikes up tall mountains in search of amazing views, rapid descents through deep valleys looking for life-giving water, and camping spots among thousand-year-old trees seen by only a few people lucky enough to learn about these living legends. We played Bristlecone baseball at 11,000 feet, and let me tell you, the cones really carry at that altitude. We stumbled across abandoned gold mines from the early 1900s on a failed attempt to find water. We threw rocks down thousand-foot-deep fissures in the mountains and listened closely as they caromed and echoed across the valley below. We were chased off the mountain on our final day after a desperate ascent against nature before arriving at the car as the rain drops began to fall.
This one's dead, and probably has been for a few thousand years.
We ended our stay in Nevada at the same place where we began - the 'Lectrolux Cafe in Baker. As part of our extensive and exhaustive calorie replacement therapy, we shared an appetizer of pizza before burgers, fries, slaw and, for me, and few of Alaskan Brewing Co's finest ales. I had lost nearly 10 pounds in those three days, so I felt justified in the slurpee I purchased a few miles down the road. However, I soon found that eating a slurpee and texting your friend, while driving across the "loneliest highway in the United States" at night, revealed itself to be very conducive to running over rabbits. I must say that Highway 50 is not so lonely if you are a rabbit - in fact, it is more like a singles club for strapping young thumpers. It would have been more dangerous to try NOT to hit them. (Apologies to all animal lovers, and a warning to not drive in western Utah at night.)
After not paying to camp in the Fishlake National Forest in Utah, we ended our calorie replacement therapy at Burger King for breakfast and Wendy's for lunch before strolling back home Monday afternoon to the news of endless rain in Colorado over the weekend and hopes for a greener tomorrow. All in all, things went pretty well.
Sunrise reflection against Johnson Lake with tree.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
A horse called Barbaro.
Like most people who watch horse racing, I tune into the Kentucky Derby about 15 minutes before the race. Typically, I like to watch the second leg of the Triple Crown (the Preakness Stakes) to see if this year's Kentucky winner will continue the quest to become the first Triple Crown winner since Affirmed. But, like many "fans," if a horse falls out of competition for the illustrious prize, I'm out. The Belmont is but a blip on my sports radar, and I don't want to hear about it anymore - not 'till next year, anyway.
Adding to my disinterest is my profound lack of love for most animals. If it doesn't weigh about 70 lbs and can't fetch a stick or go for rides in my car, I probably don't care. Horses typically don't fulfill any of the three requirements listed above, and are more useful for Jell-O, glue, dog food and, in desperate times, meat. I suppose bow material for stringed instruments is also valid.
Coming soon, Elmer's Glue, Special Barbaro Edition. For a limited time only.
There are, however, some people who feel differently than me regarding this subject. These people believe Barbaro, who destroyed his leg (see below) leaving the gate at this year's Preakness, is some type of savior horse. On the contrary, this horse was too stupid to not break his own leg and almost died (and still may). Some savior.
Would you want to live if your leg looked like that after surgery?
Shifting gears, I'd like to comment on the idiocy of some horse racing fans (likely children, who are themselves too stupid to realize horses can't read and other obsessive-compulsive-delusional types who should know better). Do you think horses can read? Or being optimistic, understand spoken English? Give me a freakin' break! "Get well Barbaro!" "Good luck Barbaro!" What's wrong with you people?! The only thing possibly going through a horses head, other than routine sexual impulses, is probably the desire (and notice I did not use the word "thought")to eat, sleep and shit. These natural instincts do not require self-awareness - reading, and more importantly, understanding sympathy from others, do. When the little jockey guy shows up to say hi and express his best wishes, the closest thing the horse experiences to awareness is nothing more than a Pavlovian response to stimulation - lets race!
I didn't know horses could read!?
The only "idea" a horse has: flowers = food. As an aside, I wish my room was that nice.
Stop talking about Barbaro on the radio. Take the crappy trying-to-feel-good story off of Sportscenter and the evening news, and get back to real stories and real injuries to real people, like Albert Pujols. Now that makes me upset.
Adding to my disinterest is my profound lack of love for most animals. If it doesn't weigh about 70 lbs and can't fetch a stick or go for rides in my car, I probably don't care. Horses typically don't fulfill any of the three requirements listed above, and are more useful for Jell-O, glue, dog food and, in desperate times, meat. I suppose bow material for stringed instruments is also valid.
Coming soon, Elmer's Glue, Special Barbaro Edition. For a limited time only.
There are, however, some people who feel differently than me regarding this subject. These people believe Barbaro, who destroyed his leg (see below) leaving the gate at this year's Preakness, is some type of savior horse. On the contrary, this horse was too stupid to not break his own leg and almost died (and still may). Some savior.
Would you want to live if your leg looked like that after surgery?
Shifting gears, I'd like to comment on the idiocy of some horse racing fans (likely children, who are themselves too stupid to realize horses can't read and other obsessive-compulsive-delusional types who should know better). Do you think horses can read? Or being optimistic, understand spoken English? Give me a freakin' break! "Get well Barbaro!" "Good luck Barbaro!" What's wrong with you people?! The only thing possibly going through a horses head, other than routine sexual impulses, is probably the desire (and notice I did not use the word "thought")to eat, sleep and shit. These natural instincts do not require self-awareness - reading, and more importantly, understanding sympathy from others, do. When the little jockey guy shows up to say hi and express his best wishes, the closest thing the horse experiences to awareness is nothing more than a Pavlovian response to stimulation - lets race!
I didn't know horses could read!?
The only "idea" a horse has: flowers = food. As an aside, I wish my room was that nice.
Stop talking about Barbaro on the radio. Take the crappy trying-to-feel-good story off of Sportscenter and the evening news, and get back to real stories and real injuries to real people, like Albert Pujols. Now that makes me upset.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Best camping trip ever!
Ahhh, Memorial Day. It sounds like a lot of fun. There's no work, you get to spend time with friends, BBQ over open fire, drink beer, car camp, experience "nature," fight for ground at overcrowded camp sites, explain to the police that you're not 17, hide from the rain under a tarp, freeze in the snow, and pack your camp site up at 6p in 35 degree temps between snow showers.
Things started out well on Saturday. I arrived at a camp site and built a fire. The air was cool, the sun was warm. My friends joined me a couple of hours later and we cooked lunch - burgers and brats. Then the nightstick-wielding Larimer County Sheriff and National Forest Ranger showed up and rained on our parade. They explained that we needed to move - we weren't in a "numbered" camp site, and adding insult to (ego) injury, they told us we appeared to be of high school age and needed to see identification because we had beer.
Not a big deal.
We found another site a few miles away, which also happened to be at about 9700'. We made a few phone calls to redirect our friends, and life was good. Saturday was by no means a loss. A good night sleep made everything better, and Sunday morning was beautiful.
The clouds began to roll in around noon, and we preemptively set a tarp above our food and wood. After an unsuccessful attempt at shooting supper, we returned to camp just as more friends arrived. They brought rain. And snow.
As the six of us sat beneath a 9' X 10' tarp, the rains came. As the initial humor of the precipitation wore off, faces grew long and feet became cold and wet. Icicles formed on the edge of the tarp, which by now we had converted into a tent-shape to block the driving wind. A shovel served to support the center of the tarp and we all sat on pieces of wood to stay off of the ground.
Soon, talk began about Big City Burritos and warm and dry things - like beds and clothes. When the rain/snow finally let up, we bailed. Two people spent no more than 3 hours "camping," and another two got lost en route, only to gain phone reception in time for us to tell them we were back in ft collins, and they too should return.
I guess it could have been worse, but I don't want to be part of that trip. For now, I'll enjoy the 72 degrees here in Denver, and the salvaged friendships from what certainly had the potential to cause interpersonal hardship. Maybe next Memorial Day...
Things started out well on Saturday. I arrived at a camp site and built a fire. The air was cool, the sun was warm. My friends joined me a couple of hours later and we cooked lunch - burgers and brats. Then the nightstick-wielding Larimer County Sheriff and National Forest Ranger showed up and rained on our parade. They explained that we needed to move - we weren't in a "numbered" camp site, and adding insult to (ego) injury, they told us we appeared to be of high school age and needed to see identification because we had beer.
Not a big deal.
We found another site a few miles away, which also happened to be at about 9700'. We made a few phone calls to redirect our friends, and life was good. Saturday was by no means a loss. A good night sleep made everything better, and Sunday morning was beautiful.
The clouds began to roll in around noon, and we preemptively set a tarp above our food and wood. After an unsuccessful attempt at shooting supper, we returned to camp just as more friends arrived. They brought rain. And snow.
As the six of us sat beneath a 9' X 10' tarp, the rains came. As the initial humor of the precipitation wore off, faces grew long and feet became cold and wet. Icicles formed on the edge of the tarp, which by now we had converted into a tent-shape to block the driving wind. A shovel served to support the center of the tarp and we all sat on pieces of wood to stay off of the ground.
Soon, talk began about Big City Burritos and warm and dry things - like beds and clothes. When the rain/snow finally let up, we bailed. Two people spent no more than 3 hours "camping," and another two got lost en route, only to gain phone reception in time for us to tell them we were back in ft collins, and they too should return.
I guess it could have been worse, but I don't want to be part of that trip. For now, I'll enjoy the 72 degrees here in Denver, and the salvaged friendships from what certainly had the potential to cause interpersonal hardship. Maybe next Memorial Day...
Because pictures make it better...
This one has been on the table for so long it's fading from the sunlight that enters through the reopened blinds.
Uh, okay...
Mastery of tape: F - unacceptable.
Did a 6-year old with Parkinson's write this?
Because you're too old to change it back?
F. Ken Fleckenstein says, "...
I'm sorry many of the notes referenced in my first post are no longer in the house. Eventually, the adhesive dried out and the notes fell. Whenever new notes are created, I will photograph them immediately and post them on this blog.
I'm also entertaining ideas for notes I could post before moving. I won't tape up blatant personal attacks, but if they're funny, please send them, too.
Uh, okay...
Mastery of tape: F - unacceptable.
Did a 6-year old with Parkinson's write this?
Because you're too old to change it back?
F. Ken Fleckenstein says, "...
I'm sorry many of the notes referenced in my first post are no longer in the house. Eventually, the adhesive dried out and the notes fell. Whenever new notes are created, I will photograph them immediately and post them on this blog.
I'm also entertaining ideas for notes I could post before moving. I won't tape up blatant personal attacks, but if they're funny, please send them, too.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Bring it on! Why higher prices at the pump are a good thing.
How can paying $2.91 for a gallon of gas be a good thing? Well, if it increases Americans' use of public transportation, stimulates interest in, and consequently fuels research for alternative fuels and modes of transportation, and lessens the middle east's grasp on our proverbial balls, all while helping to end pollution (and global warming?), that's how.
In a world of supply and demand, OPEC nations are only beginning to recognize our insatiable demand for fuel. They control the supply with the inelastic demand curve (is that right, econ people?). That is, regardless of the price, we will continue to buy oil.
For example, in Venezuela, gas at the pump on March 24 averaged only $0.12 per gallon. In Iran, it was $0.33. Here in the United States, we've lived for a long time under the illusion that we are NOT Iran's, Iraq's, Saudi Arabia's, and other OPEC nations', bitch. We kicked some ass in Bush War I and all was well. When I was 16, I paid $0.70 per gallon.
Only in Venezuela...
Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said last week, "The global oil price has not reached its real value yet. The products derived from crude oil are sold at prices dozens of times higher than those charged by oil-producing countries." He went on to say later, "The increase of the oil price and growth of oil income is very good and we hope that the oil prices reach their real levels." That's reassuring - the head of the world's 4th largest crude exporter loves higher prices and hopes the trend remains the same.
With oil prices at record highs, and oil companies recording record profits, maybe this is the time we seriously consider alternatives and begin work to seriously develop alternative energy and transportation. The benefits are endless - national autonomy in a more real sense, pollution levels dropping in 1st world countries more quickly, allowing for the benefit of such technology to be passed along to developing and undeveloped countries before the situation gets even worse, and lower fuel costs in the long run for you and me.
Washington DC has experienced some of their heaviest public transit days in the past week. The same can be said across the country. Salt Lake City has shown a 50% increase in ridership this year alone.
In Colorado, lawmakers briefly considered suspending the state's mandatory $0.22 per gallon tax used to fund highway repairs, but relented after realizing that such a move, even for only three months, would cost nearly $100 million.
As for me, well, I don't know how I'll deal with higher prices. I too, must drive to work everyday. I fill my car almost once a week, and it's not getting any easier. However, when I purchased my car last summer, fuel economy factored heavily into my decision. Tax incentives for more fuel efficient vehicles, for both producers and consumers, will help to stimulate change. There are things we can do to help our own fuel economy. Check it out: http://www.fueleconomy.gov/feg/drive.shtml
Finally, check the link on the right side of this blog to find the lowest gas prices in your area.
I don't have the answer to our energy needs, but we can all do the little things to make the transition a bit easier. No one thinks it's going to get better before it gets worse, but in the longterm, I can handle higher fuel prices now if it means no oil later.
In a world of supply and demand, OPEC nations are only beginning to recognize our insatiable demand for fuel. They control the supply with the inelastic demand curve (is that right, econ people?). That is, regardless of the price, we will continue to buy oil.
For example, in Venezuela, gas at the pump on March 24 averaged only $0.12 per gallon. In Iran, it was $0.33. Here in the United States, we've lived for a long time under the illusion that we are NOT Iran's, Iraq's, Saudi Arabia's, and other OPEC nations', bitch. We kicked some ass in Bush War I and all was well. When I was 16, I paid $0.70 per gallon.
Only in Venezuela...
Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad said last week, "The global oil price has not reached its real value yet. The products derived from crude oil are sold at prices dozens of times higher than those charged by oil-producing countries." He went on to say later, "The increase of the oil price and growth of oil income is very good and we hope that the oil prices reach their real levels." That's reassuring - the head of the world's 4th largest crude exporter loves higher prices and hopes the trend remains the same.
With oil prices at record highs, and oil companies recording record profits, maybe this is the time we seriously consider alternatives and begin work to seriously develop alternative energy and transportation. The benefits are endless - national autonomy in a more real sense, pollution levels dropping in 1st world countries more quickly, allowing for the benefit of such technology to be passed along to developing and undeveloped countries before the situation gets even worse, and lower fuel costs in the long run for you and me.
Washington DC has experienced some of their heaviest public transit days in the past week. The same can be said across the country. Salt Lake City has shown a 50% increase in ridership this year alone.
In Colorado, lawmakers briefly considered suspending the state's mandatory $0.22 per gallon tax used to fund highway repairs, but relented after realizing that such a move, even for only three months, would cost nearly $100 million.
As for me, well, I don't know how I'll deal with higher prices. I too, must drive to work everyday. I fill my car almost once a week, and it's not getting any easier. However, when I purchased my car last summer, fuel economy factored heavily into my decision. Tax incentives for more fuel efficient vehicles, for both producers and consumers, will help to stimulate change. There are things we can do to help our own fuel economy. Check it out: http://www.fueleconomy.gov/feg/drive.shtml
Finally, check the link on the right side of this blog to find the lowest gas prices in your area.
I don't have the answer to our energy needs, but we can all do the little things to make the transition a bit easier. No one thinks it's going to get better before it gets worse, but in the longterm, I can handle higher fuel prices now if it means no oil later.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
NFL draft '06
Disclaimer: The following may be considered a "rant" concerning sports.
According to Erik Kuselias, host of The Sportsbash (ESPN radio afternoons), the NFL draft is now bigger than the NBA playoffs. I guess that makes sense seeing as the NFL is bigger than all other sports in the US combined in terms of viewership, revenue, and sale-a-bility. With that in mind, my draft board (in my world):
1. Houston drafts Reggie "Lightening" Bush but trades him for a #3 receiver, an offensive line, and a defense. Yes, he's that good, and yes, they're that bad. After making these additions, their current quarterback (David Carr), running back (Dominick Davis), and receivers (Andre Johnson, Eric Moulds) will win the Super Bowl. And who needs such a back? Maybe the question is who doesn't need such a back?
2. New Orleans drafts a new city. The Super Dome is outdated, and New Orleans now sucks. The owner hates the town, and the people hate the team. Would you want to play there? I'm thinking Omaha...
3. Tennessee drafts Vince Young. What're their options? Well, they could snap the ball to Matt Mauck, who won a national championship with LSU (don't tell Reggie) based on their defense (remember how poorly Oklahoma played that year?). Next option: Billy Volek. Volek? That's not a football name. And I may be going out on a limb here, but I don't think Steve "Air" McNair will see much of the ole pigskin after being locked out of his own training facilities this spring.
4. New York (Jets) drafts me. You were thinking Matt Leinart? Well, in case you didn't realize it, Leinart did NOT win the Heisman this year - Reggie "Lightening" Bush did. According to draft EXPERT (their words, not mine) Mel Kiper, Leinart's stock is dropping, and I don't want to get caught with that ball and chain coming opening weekend. As a note, I've always thought I would be a first rounder, but I didn't expect to go this high.
5. Green Bay drafts Brett Favre. No one saw the second coming of Brett, but it's been written on the wall for months. Why else would he be so secretive? The press conference about nothing? "I'm not going to make a decision until after the draft?" It's pretty clear if you ask me...
6. San Francisco drafts D'Brickashaw Ferguson. The best defense is a good offense, right? Well, protecting your Rhodes Scholar quarterback would be a good start. This kid can play - can't let him slip past.
7. Oakland drafts D'Brickashaw Ferguson. They suck, too, and since Oakland is right across the bay, it won't be a problem.
8. Buffalo drafts A. J. Hawk. They need a linebacker, but they're really hoping that A. J.'s girlfriend, the girl wearing a jersey half of her boyfriend's and half of her brother's (Notre Dame quarterback Brady Quinn), the girl ABC showed 47 times during the Notre Dame - Ohio State BCS game, will move to town also. She's not that hot, but she's better than what's around. And her brother might come next year - they could use another quarterback.
9. Detroit drafts... who cares. If they don't lose all 16 games, I'm not interested.
10. Arizona drafts a prayer. Their current quarterback situation has Kurt Warner at #1, John Navarre at #2, and Rohan Davey at #3. When Kurt Warner is your number one, no amount of picks will help.
According to Erik Kuselias, host of The Sportsbash (ESPN radio afternoons), the NFL draft is now bigger than the NBA playoffs. I guess that makes sense seeing as the NFL is bigger than all other sports in the US combined in terms of viewership, revenue, and sale-a-bility. With that in mind, my draft board (in my world):
1. Houston drafts Reggie "Lightening" Bush but trades him for a #3 receiver, an offensive line, and a defense. Yes, he's that good, and yes, they're that bad. After making these additions, their current quarterback (David Carr), running back (Dominick Davis), and receivers (Andre Johnson, Eric Moulds) will win the Super Bowl. And who needs such a back? Maybe the question is who doesn't need such a back?
2. New Orleans drafts a new city. The Super Dome is outdated, and New Orleans now sucks. The owner hates the town, and the people hate the team. Would you want to play there? I'm thinking Omaha...
3. Tennessee drafts Vince Young. What're their options? Well, they could snap the ball to Matt Mauck, who won a national championship with LSU (don't tell Reggie) based on their defense (remember how poorly Oklahoma played that year?). Next option: Billy Volek. Volek? That's not a football name. And I may be going out on a limb here, but I don't think Steve "Air" McNair will see much of the ole pigskin after being locked out of his own training facilities this spring.
4. New York (Jets) drafts me. You were thinking Matt Leinart? Well, in case you didn't realize it, Leinart did NOT win the Heisman this year - Reggie "Lightening" Bush did. According to draft EXPERT (their words, not mine) Mel Kiper, Leinart's stock is dropping, and I don't want to get caught with that ball and chain coming opening weekend. As a note, I've always thought I would be a first rounder, but I didn't expect to go this high.
5. Green Bay drafts Brett Favre. No one saw the second coming of Brett, but it's been written on the wall for months. Why else would he be so secretive? The press conference about nothing? "I'm not going to make a decision until after the draft?" It's pretty clear if you ask me...
6. San Francisco drafts D'Brickashaw Ferguson. The best defense is a good offense, right? Well, protecting your Rhodes Scholar quarterback would be a good start. This kid can play - can't let him slip past.
7. Oakland drafts D'Brickashaw Ferguson. They suck, too, and since Oakland is right across the bay, it won't be a problem.
8. Buffalo drafts A. J. Hawk. They need a linebacker, but they're really hoping that A. J.'s girlfriend, the girl wearing a jersey half of her boyfriend's and half of her brother's (Notre Dame quarterback Brady Quinn), the girl ABC showed 47 times during the Notre Dame - Ohio State BCS game, will move to town also. She's not that hot, but she's better than what's around. And her brother might come next year - they could use another quarterback.
9. Detroit drafts... who cares. If they don't lose all 16 games, I'm not interested.
10. Arizona drafts a prayer. Their current quarterback situation has Kurt Warner at #1, John Navarre at #2, and Rohan Davey at #3. When Kurt Warner is your number one, no amount of picks will help.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Walking on (thin) ice.
I miss winter already...
Recently, an oceanographer from Florida State U declared that Jesus may not have walked on water as described in three of the four gospels found in the Bible, but instead stood on freak "spring ice."
According to Professor Doron Nof, a colder-than-average period in northern Isreal existed between 1500 and 2600 years ago, and this could have produced ice thick enough to support a man. Nof says, "Because the size of the springs ice, a person standing or walking on it would appear to a distant observer to be 'walking on water'."
I'm not attempting to get into a giant truth or fiction debate with myself here, but only attempting to consider the possiblities...
I'm finally working. Lately, I've been building, repairing, and maintaining hiking trails for Jefferson County Open Spaces. I work four ten-hour days, which, when translated into actual hours worked, is closer to about six and a half. I've realized that what you hear about county workers is, by and large, true. When I do work, I really enjoy it. Today I built a bridge. Probably not up to "code" as some of my engineering friends would say, the bridge will support people and only be about 3 feet above the ground, which for about 6 weeks each year, is covered by a stream.
I also work at 24 hour fitness. I answer the phone, check IDs with a scanner, and accept payments from guests. I rarely leave the front desk. If anyone needs a secretary, please contact me. I work for anything above $7 an hour (as long as it includes a gym pass).
Finally, I'm beginning to reconsider my haughty prediction of Rockies baseball greatness this season. I may have to push that back a year.
Recently, an oceanographer from Florida State U declared that Jesus may not have walked on water as described in three of the four gospels found in the Bible, but instead stood on freak "spring ice."
According to Professor Doron Nof, a colder-than-average period in northern Isreal existed between 1500 and 2600 years ago, and this could have produced ice thick enough to support a man. Nof says, "Because the size of the springs ice, a person standing or walking on it would appear to a distant observer to be 'walking on water'."
I'm not attempting to get into a giant truth or fiction debate with myself here, but only attempting to consider the possiblities...
I'm finally working. Lately, I've been building, repairing, and maintaining hiking trails for Jefferson County Open Spaces. I work four ten-hour days, which, when translated into actual hours worked, is closer to about six and a half. I've realized that what you hear about county workers is, by and large, true. When I do work, I really enjoy it. Today I built a bridge. Probably not up to "code" as some of my engineering friends would say, the bridge will support people and only be about 3 feet above the ground, which for about 6 weeks each year, is covered by a stream.
I also work at 24 hour fitness. I answer the phone, check IDs with a scanner, and accept payments from guests. I rarely leave the front desk. If anyone needs a secretary, please contact me. I work for anything above $7 an hour (as long as it includes a gym pass).
Finally, I'm beginning to reconsider my haughty prediction of Rockies baseball greatness this season. I may have to push that back a year.
Adrianna Lima is a virgin!(?)
My friends stole my hat one night in Telluride and kept it for about a month. They took pictures of the hat all over the country. That's my hat on a maintenance guy on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.
Okay, so the title of this post was only meant to get your attention. I really won't go into it, but according to Adrianna, by way of a recent GQ interview, that is true.
Moving along... the cat lady recently moved out of the house. She and the couch lady (I'll explain momentarily) were not getting along. It seems the combination of an obsessive-compulsive passive-aggressive psycho with a broken arm never leaving the living room and a compulsively dirty shut in doesn't work well in a small environment. Things did not end well, but lately I've managed to be anywhere but home, and luckily have missed most of the drama.
So, the couch lady... The owner of the house, about a month ago, fell down the steps and broke her arm - obviously a completely physically debilitating affliction. For her, broken arm = not able to leave the living room. She ate and slept and complained about everything for a month. She did not go to work. She did not shower. When I came home at night, she was sleeping in her chair. When I woke up to go to work, still sleeping in her chair. When I was fixing supper, still sleeping. She affectively banished me to my windowless basement bedroom for all of my time at home, which became less and less.
But last week things changed dramatically for the better. As the cat lady moved along, the couch lady returned to work (albeit on a modified schedule due to her being a whiner), and I was again able to watch sportscenter on Friday mornings.
In other news: The Rockies are good at baseball (hey, we're already through 10 games, only 153 'till the formality of receiving our first pennant becomes reality)
Mohammad Ali sold his name for $50 million. (see "People Lost Their Virginity to this Music" below.)
I have two job offers to work at wineries in France this fall, but may go to Spain to work construction instead(?).
It's raining,
and Marcus is in town.
Okay, so the title of this post was only meant to get your attention. I really won't go into it, but according to Adrianna, by way of a recent GQ interview, that is true.
Moving along... the cat lady recently moved out of the house. She and the couch lady (I'll explain momentarily) were not getting along. It seems the combination of an obsessive-compulsive passive-aggressive psycho with a broken arm never leaving the living room and a compulsively dirty shut in doesn't work well in a small environment. Things did not end well, but lately I've managed to be anywhere but home, and luckily have missed most of the drama.
So, the couch lady... The owner of the house, about a month ago, fell down the steps and broke her arm - obviously a completely physically debilitating affliction. For her, broken arm = not able to leave the living room. She ate and slept and complained about everything for a month. She did not go to work. She did not shower. When I came home at night, she was sleeping in her chair. When I woke up to go to work, still sleeping in her chair. When I was fixing supper, still sleeping. She affectively banished me to my windowless basement bedroom for all of my time at home, which became less and less.
But last week things changed dramatically for the better. As the cat lady moved along, the couch lady returned to work (albeit on a modified schedule due to her being a whiner), and I was again able to watch sportscenter on Friday mornings.
In other news: The Rockies are good at baseball (hey, we're already through 10 games, only 153 'till the formality of receiving our first pennant becomes reality)
Mohammad Ali sold his name for $50 million. (see "People Lost Their Virginity to this Music" below.)
I have two job offers to work at wineries in France this fall, but may go to Spain to work construction instead(?).
It's raining,
and Marcus is in town.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Road trip!
Living in the civilized United States, I'd lately been under the (wrong) impression that if I wanted to legally witness a cock fight, I'd have to go to a third-world country, perhaps canada, mexico, or maybe even el salvador. wrong.
Just like Vegas...
much like the until-recently-considered-extinct ivory-billed woodpecker (just found in arkansas after 50 years of being dead), I've discovered something I'd thought went the way of said bird, and it's right in my backyard.
cockfighting is legal in Louisiana, and even closer to home in New Mexico! what happens in a cock fight, you may ask? well, according to some clearly antiquated anti-cock-fighting advocates:
Two or more roosters are put in a ring and forced to fight, and people bet on which bird will win. The birds wear spurs on their legs, and these steel blades are so sharp that they can puncture a lung, pierce an eye or break bones. The actual fight usually lasts until one of the birds dies--which can take anywhere from a couple of minutes to more than 30 minutes.
I don't know how this doesn't sound like good, clean, humane fun. and who can turn down the chance to win money?!
My money's on Little Jerry.
Just like Vegas...
much like the until-recently-considered-extinct ivory-billed woodpecker (just found in arkansas after 50 years of being dead), I've discovered something I'd thought went the way of said bird, and it's right in my backyard.
cockfighting is legal in Louisiana, and even closer to home in New Mexico! what happens in a cock fight, you may ask? well, according to some clearly antiquated anti-cock-fighting advocates:
Two or more roosters are put in a ring and forced to fight, and people bet on which bird will win. The birds wear spurs on their legs, and these steel blades are so sharp that they can puncture a lung, pierce an eye or break bones. The actual fight usually lasts until one of the birds dies--which can take anywhere from a couple of minutes to more than 30 minutes.
I don't know how this doesn't sound like good, clean, humane fun. and who can turn down the chance to win money?!
My money's on Little Jerry.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
"People lost their virginity to this music..."
A friend of mine pointed something out regarding my last post. He asked, "Wouldn’t Dylan have to allow his song to be used in a commercial?" I thought about it for a minute and checked it out on the internet. I was under the impression that after "x" number of years passed, a song became open to use by the public - wrong.
And last night as I was lying in bed, doped up on a nasty cocktail of 81mg aspirin, ibuprofen, and one Excedrin migraine, I recognized a song made popular to “our” generation in Quentin Tarantino’s film “Reservoir Dogs.” It facilitates a gruesome scene in which a man’s ear is removed with a knife while he is alive, unmedicated, and most definitely conscious. The song is “Stuck in the Middle With You,” written Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty, and performed by Stealer’s Wheel. When released in 1973, that song reached number one on both the US and UK pop charts, and last night Olay Body Wash used it in a commercial for people with combination skin.
Cover art for the Rolling Stones' cd available only at Starbucks.
This is the latest example of the degeneration of character of our great artists. Geoff Boucher of the LA Times recently wrote an article about this same thing. He pointed out some of the latest “sellouts” in the modern era. I’m not talking about the Stealer’s Wheels of music, but about the big names, the ones that still have lots of money, lots of fame, and for some reason feel they need even more.
Boucher writes:
Bob Dylan is singing "The Times They Are A-Changin' " in a television ad for healthcare giant Kaiser Permanente these days, and who could argue? With Led Zeppelin pitching Cadillacs, the Rolling Stones strutting in an Ameriquest Mortgage ad and Paul McCartney warbling for Fidelity Investments, it's clear that the old counterculture heroes of classic rock are now firmly entrenched as the house band of corporate America.
But I must ask why. Dylan is Dylan – one of the most prolific, influential, and timeless singer-songwriters in music history. Zeppelin paved the road (poor word choice, considering…) for modern rock and roll. The Stones? Right up there with that other famous Brit band, the Beatles, and still touring, still charging $150 dollars a show, still playing only 10 songs a night, and still selling more schwag than anyone else (even at Starbucks). Paul McCartney? These last two artists are even associated with Aerosmith (the sucky version), Britney Spears, and the Super Bowl halftime show. WHY?
Paul McCartney wants more money too!
I guess money talks – thankfully, not everyone listens. John Densmore of the Doors, along with Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Carlos Santana, and the Eagles, have resisted the temptation to nibble at the financial carrots dangled in front of their faces. In the case of Densmore, he has instated a great disequilibrium with his former band mates, both of whom have wanted to cash in on add offers from Cadillac (reported $15 million), Apple ($4 mil.), and countless deodorant adds (wanting to use the song “Light My Fire”).
While Densmore’s reasoning sounds VERY cliché ("People lost their virginity to this music, got high for the first time to this music," Densmore said. "I've had people say kids died in Vietnam listening to this music, other people say they know someone who didn't commit suicide because of this music…. On stage, when we played these songs, they felt mysterious and magic. That's not for rent."), it’s that kind of steadfastness that protects the music’s integrity.
Robert Plant signing (his soul onto) the hood of a Cadillac.
I like some of the Rolling Stones old classics. They were written in a different era and meant something - that will never change. However, the perception of the band as a sellout will never change, either. They’ve sold their souls to corporate America, but at what cost, and at what gain?
And last night as I was lying in bed, doped up on a nasty cocktail of 81mg aspirin, ibuprofen, and one Excedrin migraine, I recognized a song made popular to “our” generation in Quentin Tarantino’s film “Reservoir Dogs.” It facilitates a gruesome scene in which a man’s ear is removed with a knife while he is alive, unmedicated, and most definitely conscious. The song is “Stuck in the Middle With You,” written Joe Egan and Gerry Rafferty, and performed by Stealer’s Wheel. When released in 1973, that song reached number one on both the US and UK pop charts, and last night Olay Body Wash used it in a commercial for people with combination skin.
Cover art for the Rolling Stones' cd available only at Starbucks.
This is the latest example of the degeneration of character of our great artists. Geoff Boucher of the LA Times recently wrote an article about this same thing. He pointed out some of the latest “sellouts” in the modern era. I’m not talking about the Stealer’s Wheels of music, but about the big names, the ones that still have lots of money, lots of fame, and for some reason feel they need even more.
Boucher writes:
Bob Dylan is singing "The Times They Are A-Changin' " in a television ad for healthcare giant Kaiser Permanente these days, and who could argue? With Led Zeppelin pitching Cadillacs, the Rolling Stones strutting in an Ameriquest Mortgage ad and Paul McCartney warbling for Fidelity Investments, it's clear that the old counterculture heroes of classic rock are now firmly entrenched as the house band of corporate America.
But I must ask why. Dylan is Dylan – one of the most prolific, influential, and timeless singer-songwriters in music history. Zeppelin paved the road (poor word choice, considering…) for modern rock and roll. The Stones? Right up there with that other famous Brit band, the Beatles, and still touring, still charging $150 dollars a show, still playing only 10 songs a night, and still selling more schwag than anyone else (even at Starbucks). Paul McCartney? These last two artists are even associated with Aerosmith (the sucky version), Britney Spears, and the Super Bowl halftime show. WHY?
Paul McCartney wants more money too!
I guess money talks – thankfully, not everyone listens. John Densmore of the Doors, along with Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Carlos Santana, and the Eagles, have resisted the temptation to nibble at the financial carrots dangled in front of their faces. In the case of Densmore, he has instated a great disequilibrium with his former band mates, both of whom have wanted to cash in on add offers from Cadillac (reported $15 million), Apple ($4 mil.), and countless deodorant adds (wanting to use the song “Light My Fire”).
While Densmore’s reasoning sounds VERY cliché ("People lost their virginity to this music, got high for the first time to this music," Densmore said. "I've had people say kids died in Vietnam listening to this music, other people say they know someone who didn't commit suicide because of this music…. On stage, when we played these songs, they felt mysterious and magic. That's not for rent."), it’s that kind of steadfastness that protects the music’s integrity.
Robert Plant signing (his soul onto) the hood of a Cadillac.
I like some of the Rolling Stones old classics. They were written in a different era and meant something - that will never change. However, the perception of the band as a sellout will never change, either. They’ve sold their souls to corporate America, but at what cost, and at what gain?
Monday, February 27, 2006
They certainly are...
I just saw something on TV that may make Bob Dylan unhappy. Kaiser-Permenente, an insurance company, just used the song “The Times They Are A Changing” in a commercial to stir fat people to action. They showed a man, overweight, changing his thinking about being fat, apparently because he was listening to Bob.
(A skinny) Bob Dylan, 1962.
Now you can call me a cynic, but I think it is an insult to reduce such an important song to a commercial for an insurance company claiming to care about their customers (this is where Dylan might disagree. He claimed his songs meant lots of things, some obvious, some not so much, and occasionally he meant what he said - but the reality of that song is strong...I digress.). We must not fall into the delusion that the insurance company actually wants people to be healthy. That is anti-profit. If people were generally healthy and exercised effort in taking care of themselves, health insurance rates would go down. Dramatically. It is naïve to think insurance companies want this to happen.
It is these commercials that make me want to train the fat [m]asses, moving them off their couches and into gyms, or onto running trails, because fewer instances of heart attack, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and other environmentally induced conditions would actually lower our health insurance. Few would disagree that less-crowded hospitals, increased life expectancies, and lower health-care costs are good things.
I pay for my own insurance. For health coverage, I pay $100 each month. I have a $2000 deductible. I don’t smoke, I’ve never had anything worse than the flu, and that’s only happened once or twice. I had surgery once at the age of 10 months. I’m not the healthiest person I know, but I’m far closer to the top of the healthy heap than most. I am being fleeced. Insurance companies know that with the ever-rising cost of even the most standard medical treatments, it is simply insane to go without insurance. They can charge whatever they like. You and I will pay.
I was recently confronted with the possibility of surgery for a potential hernia I earned working for the US Forest Service. After a couple doctor visits and one ultrasound, the doctors concluded that I didn’t need surgery. That came as a relief, because the government wouldn’t have paid anyway. They have some loophole regarding non-specific injuries on the job that gets them out of what must be thousands and thousands of dollars worth of medical bills. Therefore, the burden falls upon me.
Individuals are powerless when caught in the void between mega-insurance companies and mega-employers. Both have the financial power to screw the individual, who has not the resources, intellectual, financial, or temporal to compete on such a grand scale. Lawyers for these companies operate behind closed doors, 24 hours a day, in teams with unlimited income, because finding the newest ways to stay ahead of someone who’s getting close to being treated fairly is always worth the cost.
Treat your body with some respect. Join a gym. Walk your dog for longer than 5 minutes. Try and get from the “obese” category of our society into the “overweight” one. Set some kind of self-respecting goal. Don’t believe what you see on TV, and don’t resign yourself to a preconceived fate. I pay way too much for insurance, and it’s your fault.
(A skinny) Bob Dylan, 1962.
Now you can call me a cynic, but I think it is an insult to reduce such an important song to a commercial for an insurance company claiming to care about their customers (this is where Dylan might disagree. He claimed his songs meant lots of things, some obvious, some not so much, and occasionally he meant what he said - but the reality of that song is strong...I digress.). We must not fall into the delusion that the insurance company actually wants people to be healthy. That is anti-profit. If people were generally healthy and exercised effort in taking care of themselves, health insurance rates would go down. Dramatically. It is naïve to think insurance companies want this to happen.
It is these commercials that make me want to train the fat [m]asses, moving them off their couches and into gyms, or onto running trails, because fewer instances of heart attack, high blood pressure, high cholesterol and other environmentally induced conditions would actually lower our health insurance. Few would disagree that less-crowded hospitals, increased life expectancies, and lower health-care costs are good things.
I pay for my own insurance. For health coverage, I pay $100 each month. I have a $2000 deductible. I don’t smoke, I’ve never had anything worse than the flu, and that’s only happened once or twice. I had surgery once at the age of 10 months. I’m not the healthiest person I know, but I’m far closer to the top of the healthy heap than most. I am being fleeced. Insurance companies know that with the ever-rising cost of even the most standard medical treatments, it is simply insane to go without insurance. They can charge whatever they like. You and I will pay.
I was recently confronted with the possibility of surgery for a potential hernia I earned working for the US Forest Service. After a couple doctor visits and one ultrasound, the doctors concluded that I didn’t need surgery. That came as a relief, because the government wouldn’t have paid anyway. They have some loophole regarding non-specific injuries on the job that gets them out of what must be thousands and thousands of dollars worth of medical bills. Therefore, the burden falls upon me.
Individuals are powerless when caught in the void between mega-insurance companies and mega-employers. Both have the financial power to screw the individual, who has not the resources, intellectual, financial, or temporal to compete on such a grand scale. Lawyers for these companies operate behind closed doors, 24 hours a day, in teams with unlimited income, because finding the newest ways to stay ahead of someone who’s getting close to being treated fairly is always worth the cost.
Treat your body with some respect. Join a gym. Walk your dog for longer than 5 minutes. Try and get from the “obese” category of our society into the “overweight” one. Set some kind of self-respecting goal. Don’t believe what you see on TV, and don’t resign yourself to a preconceived fate. I pay way too much for insurance, and it’s your fault.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Buckle up, this could be a bumpy ride.
Currently, Colorado law stipulates that a police officer may only write a ticket for not wearing a seat belt if the motorist is pulled over for another infraction. This is known as a secondary violation.
On Tuesday, February 14, the Colorado House of Representatives passed by one vote House Bill 1125, which if approved by the full House, and then the Senate, would make not wearing a seatbelt a primary offense. This means a police officer could initiate a traffic stop only because you are not wearing your seat belt.
Who has the right to make a decision regarding whether or not I choose to wear a seatbelt? If lawmakers have their way, that decision may be out of my hands (if I don’t want to risk a ticket). Those same lawmakers will also be receiving the sum of $12.6 million from the federal government. I’m not saying that a politician would trade a vote for money, but…
I don’t want my taxes, which are high enough already, to fund a national campaign for mandatory seat belt laws. Allowing an officer to initiate a traffic stop under these pretenses is unconstitutional. Fortunately, opponents to the proposed law were able to add an amendment requiring officers to actually witness a driver not wearing a seatbelt. In many other states, officers are able to pull someone over under a “reasonable suspicion” clause.
"You can see if someone is swerving," said Rep. Morgan Carroll (D-Aurora). "You can see if they're not using their signal. You can detect if they are speeding, but you cannot, you cannot really see if someone is or is not wearing their seat belt until you're right up on them. Folks, that is a random stop."
Now don’t get me wrong, I believe seat belts save lives, and I also believe it is a responsibility of someone to those about whom they care to take precautions regarding their own safety – but that’s where I draw the line. In my opinion, you are more than welcome to choose not to wear your seatbelt. Your decision does not affect my safety on the road. Should you become injured in an accident, or perhaps even be killed, that is unfortunate, but that is also your decision.
On Tuesday, February 14, the Colorado House of Representatives passed by one vote House Bill 1125, which if approved by the full House, and then the Senate, would make not wearing a seatbelt a primary offense. This means a police officer could initiate a traffic stop only because you are not wearing your seat belt.
Who has the right to make a decision regarding whether or not I choose to wear a seatbelt? If lawmakers have their way, that decision may be out of my hands (if I don’t want to risk a ticket). Those same lawmakers will also be receiving the sum of $12.6 million from the federal government. I’m not saying that a politician would trade a vote for money, but…
I don’t want my taxes, which are high enough already, to fund a national campaign for mandatory seat belt laws. Allowing an officer to initiate a traffic stop under these pretenses is unconstitutional. Fortunately, opponents to the proposed law were able to add an amendment requiring officers to actually witness a driver not wearing a seatbelt. In many other states, officers are able to pull someone over under a “reasonable suspicion” clause.
"You can see if someone is swerving," said Rep. Morgan Carroll (D-Aurora). "You can see if they're not using their signal. You can detect if they are speeding, but you cannot, you cannot really see if someone is or is not wearing their seat belt until you're right up on them. Folks, that is a random stop."
Now don’t get me wrong, I believe seat belts save lives, and I also believe it is a responsibility of someone to those about whom they care to take precautions regarding their own safety – but that’s where I draw the line. In my opinion, you are more than welcome to choose not to wear your seatbelt. Your decision does not affect my safety on the road. Should you become injured in an accident, or perhaps even be killed, that is unfortunate, but that is also your decision.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Jumper? Where?
A typical night in Sitka when I wasn’t working involved watching the endless summer sunsets. Most nights I chose the bridge that spanned the water gap from Baranof Island to the airport island because its surface was about 70 feet above the water. Much taller than anything else in town, the bridge also yielded an unobstructed view north.
Many nights I liked to write letters from this point. It served as a nice introduction. It allowed me to talk about the ocean to my west, the fishing boats returning to harbor below my feet, or the never-setting sun to my north. Apparently, many of the attributes of this bridge also make it a prime location for locals to end a long, depressing winter early.
I was having an especially good evening in July of 2004 and was writing a very long letter to a friend. A complicated relationship, this letter contained much and required a lot of thought. As usual on the bridge, I lost awareness of time and of the passing cars just feet behind me. They didn’t pass often and didn’t drive fast and didn’t require my attention.
I was just wrapping things up around 10:30 pm when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something strange. It seemed that a car from the far lane of traffic (my left) was driving across the near lane, straight toward me. My natural reaction was to get out of the way, so I grabbed my journal and jumped to the right. Preoccupied, I failed to notice the two cars that had simultaneously approached from the opposite direction and stopped half on the sidewalk, half in the road, just feet to my right.
Sizing things up (what were my options? I couldn’t move anyway), and with the aid of their flashing lights, I realized that these crazy drivers were in fact the local police - all of them. Unbeknownst to me, they’d stopped traffic on both sides of the bridge and initiated a coordinated attack on my position. My first thought, after realizing that I wasn’t going to die, was that perhaps I’d violated some type of homeland security act regarding sustained time spent on one bridge without exiting.
As the cop from the closest vehicle on my right exited his car, he slowly approached me and casually introduced himself as Officer John. Still not having any idea why I was being approached, I made what must have been perceived as an aggressive move in his direction, removing from my pocket and extending my hand meaning only to introduce myself (also as Jon). I was, however, cut off and told to keep my hands where they could be seen, and not to make any sudden moves.
Looking north from Suicide Bridge at midnight.
Officer John asked me what I was doing on the bridge for so long that night, and still not aware of their purpose, explained that I was writing a long letter to a good friend. It was at about that point that I realized someone must have mistaken me for a possible suicide, and called the police to investigate the situation.
In the process of clarifying my situation, I learned that Officer John was married to one of my co-workers, we’d both lived in Montana, and we were both enjoying the drier-than-normal summer.
The stressful situation successfully resolved, I apologized for taking their time. They explained that it was a slow night and all of the on-duty officers had responded, mostly out of curiosity. I also explained that they may want to re-assess their approach philosophy regarding potential jumpers. I was not suicidal and almost jumped myself, fearful of being smashed into a guard rail by an SUV.
This event propelled me to near-celebrity status for about a week.
Many nights I liked to write letters from this point. It served as a nice introduction. It allowed me to talk about the ocean to my west, the fishing boats returning to harbor below my feet, or the never-setting sun to my north. Apparently, many of the attributes of this bridge also make it a prime location for locals to end a long, depressing winter early.
I was having an especially good evening in July of 2004 and was writing a very long letter to a friend. A complicated relationship, this letter contained much and required a lot of thought. As usual on the bridge, I lost awareness of time and of the passing cars just feet behind me. They didn’t pass often and didn’t drive fast and didn’t require my attention.
I was just wrapping things up around 10:30 pm when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something strange. It seemed that a car from the far lane of traffic (my left) was driving across the near lane, straight toward me. My natural reaction was to get out of the way, so I grabbed my journal and jumped to the right. Preoccupied, I failed to notice the two cars that had simultaneously approached from the opposite direction and stopped half on the sidewalk, half in the road, just feet to my right.
Sizing things up (what were my options? I couldn’t move anyway), and with the aid of their flashing lights, I realized that these crazy drivers were in fact the local police - all of them. Unbeknownst to me, they’d stopped traffic on both sides of the bridge and initiated a coordinated attack on my position. My first thought, after realizing that I wasn’t going to die, was that perhaps I’d violated some type of homeland security act regarding sustained time spent on one bridge without exiting.
As the cop from the closest vehicle on my right exited his car, he slowly approached me and casually introduced himself as Officer John. Still not having any idea why I was being approached, I made what must have been perceived as an aggressive move in his direction, removing from my pocket and extending my hand meaning only to introduce myself (also as Jon). I was, however, cut off and told to keep my hands where they could be seen, and not to make any sudden moves.
Looking north from Suicide Bridge at midnight.
Officer John asked me what I was doing on the bridge for so long that night, and still not aware of their purpose, explained that I was writing a long letter to a good friend. It was at about that point that I realized someone must have mistaken me for a possible suicide, and called the police to investigate the situation.
In the process of clarifying my situation, I learned that Officer John was married to one of my co-workers, we’d both lived in Montana, and we were both enjoying the drier-than-normal summer.
The stressful situation successfully resolved, I apologized for taking their time. They explained that it was a slow night and all of the on-duty officers had responded, mostly out of curiosity. I also explained that they may want to re-assess their approach philosophy regarding potential jumpers. I was not suicidal and almost jumped myself, fearful of being smashed into a guard rail by an SUV.
This event propelled me to near-celebrity status for about a week.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Who wants to go skiing?
In the middle of the best snow season for Colorado's ski resorts since I've lived in the state, I find it harder than ever to commit myself to even a day trip into the mountains. It's not that I don't have time - I live in Denver and don't have a job. Money is a realistic issue, but I suppose if I wanted it badly enough, it could happen. I've just been so spoiled, it doesn't seem worth it.
Last season, I lived in Telluride working a ski lift. This means I got about 115 days on the mountain during an epic southern-colorado winter. During work days, I enjoyed a two-hour ski break, only 30 minutes of which were unpaid. On my days off, I'd wake up at 8:45, eat a pop tart, put on my ski clothes, and walk 50 meters to the lift, where I'd cut in front of the masses and grab first chair. I'd ski hard for about 4 hours, stop into the bar where a pretty girl I know worked, and eat and drink free pizza and beer. If I still felt like skiing, I'd head back out for the afternoon, but when you have a free pass there's no pressure to "get your money's worth." In the afternoons I'd poach a hot tub with friends, grab supper, and shoot pool for a few drinks in town before riding the gondola back home. Repeat the following day.
Now, there's an entirely different process. At least a day or two previous, you have to find someone else interested and able to ski on the same day. You have to buy a lift ticket at king soopers for discount, or if you forget, get butchered at the window. if you're lucky like me, you might have friends working at resorts who hook you up, reducing your personal financial hardships.
Next, you have to wake up at 6:30, grab a bite, and hit the road. Normally, its only about 1.5 hours to the nearest resorts, but with denver rush-hour traffic on weekdays and ski traffic on weekends, you can plan on adding 45 minutes to 2 hours. If you get stuck, it's conceivable that you'll spend 3 -4 hours in traffic if there's fresh snow on the road. All of a sudden you're stuck with a $55 ticket for one day of skiing and you've already missed the most important part - first tracks. Adding to the frustration, you still need to find a parking spot. You can pay more and be within walking distance, or park for free 5 miles from the nearest lift and wait 20 minutes in the cold and blowing snow to ride a crowded shuttle bus with 70 of your cheapest friends - if you're lucky. More realistically, because you're parked in the farthest lot, there are no spaces on this bus, and you wait longer.
So now you've got to ski ALL DAY because you've purchased a day pass. Because you were in such a hurry this morning, you forgot to bring lunch and must pay $21.75 for a 2-hour old, burned 1/4-pound burger and half order of fries. You can't afford water. This means that at 3:30 when you're tired (because you don't have anymore calories to burn and are severely dehydrated) and cold (because the day you selected last week turned out to have a high of 6 degrees F with clouds and a 35 mph wind), you force yourself to take "one more run," and you fall, tearing you ACL, MCL, and LCD, in front of the Hawaiian Tropic girls, who are doing their annual winter photo shoot.
So on top of paying for a day pass and a day's gas, you also have a hospital bill and owe the guy next door a new TV.
Who wants to go skiing?
Last season, I lived in Telluride working a ski lift. This means I got about 115 days on the mountain during an epic southern-colorado winter. During work days, I enjoyed a two-hour ski break, only 30 minutes of which were unpaid. On my days off, I'd wake up at 8:45, eat a pop tart, put on my ski clothes, and walk 50 meters to the lift, where I'd cut in front of the masses and grab first chair. I'd ski hard for about 4 hours, stop into the bar where a pretty girl I know worked, and eat and drink free pizza and beer. If I still felt like skiing, I'd head back out for the afternoon, but when you have a free pass there's no pressure to "get your money's worth." In the afternoons I'd poach a hot tub with friends, grab supper, and shoot pool for a few drinks in town before riding the gondola back home. Repeat the following day.
Now, there's an entirely different process. At least a day or two previous, you have to find someone else interested and able to ski on the same day. You have to buy a lift ticket at king soopers for discount, or if you forget, get butchered at the window. if you're lucky like me, you might have friends working at resorts who hook you up, reducing your personal financial hardships.
Next, you have to wake up at 6:30, grab a bite, and hit the road. Normally, its only about 1.5 hours to the nearest resorts, but with denver rush-hour traffic on weekdays and ski traffic on weekends, you can plan on adding 45 minutes to 2 hours. If you get stuck, it's conceivable that you'll spend 3 -4 hours in traffic if there's fresh snow on the road. All of a sudden you're stuck with a $55 ticket for one day of skiing and you've already missed the most important part - first tracks. Adding to the frustration, you still need to find a parking spot. You can pay more and be within walking distance, or park for free 5 miles from the nearest lift and wait 20 minutes in the cold and blowing snow to ride a crowded shuttle bus with 70 of your cheapest friends - if you're lucky. More realistically, because you're parked in the farthest lot, there are no spaces on this bus, and you wait longer.
So now you've got to ski ALL DAY because you've purchased a day pass. Because you were in such a hurry this morning, you forgot to bring lunch and must pay $21.75 for a 2-hour old, burned 1/4-pound burger and half order of fries. You can't afford water. This means that at 3:30 when you're tired (because you don't have anymore calories to burn and are severely dehydrated) and cold (because the day you selected last week turned out to have a high of 6 degrees F with clouds and a 35 mph wind), you force yourself to take "one more run," and you fall, tearing you ACL, MCL, and LCD, in front of the Hawaiian Tropic girls, who are doing their annual winter photo shoot.
So on top of paying for a day pass and a day's gas, you also have a hospital bill and owe the guy next door a new TV.
Who wants to go skiing?
Hunting...for jobs.
About two weeks ago I began my job search in Denver. My goal was to get a job waiting tables at decent restaurant, but I had no idea where to begin. I called a friend of mine, the chef at Buca D'Italia, and explained my situation. He made a few calls and told me where I should apply. When I asked about my lack of experience (that would be NO experience), he told me to "make it up. No one ever calls references - you'll be fine."
Later that night, I spent about 10 minutes building a bare-bones, real-but-fake resume. I tried to follow my uncle's advice (given during a night of vodka shots) and "anchor the lies to some truth," in order to keep things straight in my mind. I didn't go in to depth with anything, didn't list any phone numbers, names of supervisors, or dates worked (outside of listing the year). I decided to use the names of real restaurants in towns where I'd worked, hoping to stay on track. The next day I handed out 7 or 8 of these resumes.
Probably because my resumes sucked so much, only one restaurant called me for an interview. When I arrived, I met with the owner, and the first thing she said was that she knew the restaurant I'd listed from Napa. Wow, what a great way to get things rolling. The short remainder of the interview consisted of her asking questions exposing my lack of food knowledge, and probably my lack of any knowledge regarding food service outside of my days at mcdonalds in omaha 10 years ago. How could I have known that "caramelizing" an onion didn't involve caramel?
I also filled out an application at C B & Potts, a local restaurant chain serving moderately priced entrees. Things were going well - they only wanted two previous jobs, so I gave them real ones, and they only asked for the number of years experience at certain food-service-related positions. However, I was tired, and at the end of a long day, and some of my answers to their "personality" questions may have waivered a bit. For example, one question asked, "Does the word 'merchandizing' mean anything to you?" I responded, "It sounds corporate." And another question asked, "Please comment on a recent personal triumph or achievement." I don't know if I just couldn't stand to not lie on an application, but I responded, "I am most proud of my recent winnings on a three-way parlay bet with the steelers winning the super bowl. seriously."
I have yet to hear from C B & Potts. I will call today.
Other notes from the weekend...
-Big city burrito (the original) is still the best thing going.
-Free beer almost always tastes better than not-free beer.
-Pugs do not have discriminating taste.
-Cigars make me smell bad for about 48 hours. A shower cuts the residual odor by 75%.
-Finally, "The more things change..."
Later that night, I spent about 10 minutes building a bare-bones, real-but-fake resume. I tried to follow my uncle's advice (given during a night of vodka shots) and "anchor the lies to some truth," in order to keep things straight in my mind. I didn't go in to depth with anything, didn't list any phone numbers, names of supervisors, or dates worked (outside of listing the year). I decided to use the names of real restaurants in towns where I'd worked, hoping to stay on track. The next day I handed out 7 or 8 of these resumes.
Probably because my resumes sucked so much, only one restaurant called me for an interview. When I arrived, I met with the owner, and the first thing she said was that she knew the restaurant I'd listed from Napa. Wow, what a great way to get things rolling. The short remainder of the interview consisted of her asking questions exposing my lack of food knowledge, and probably my lack of any knowledge regarding food service outside of my days at mcdonalds in omaha 10 years ago. How could I have known that "caramelizing" an onion didn't involve caramel?
I also filled out an application at C B & Potts, a local restaurant chain serving moderately priced entrees. Things were going well - they only wanted two previous jobs, so I gave them real ones, and they only asked for the number of years experience at certain food-service-related positions. However, I was tired, and at the end of a long day, and some of my answers to their "personality" questions may have waivered a bit. For example, one question asked, "Does the word 'merchandizing' mean anything to you?" I responded, "It sounds corporate." And another question asked, "Please comment on a recent personal triumph or achievement." I don't know if I just couldn't stand to not lie on an application, but I responded, "I am most proud of my recent winnings on a three-way parlay bet with the steelers winning the super bowl. seriously."
I have yet to hear from C B & Potts. I will call today.
Other notes from the weekend...
-Big city burrito (the original) is still the best thing going.
-Free beer almost always tastes better than not-free beer.
-Pugs do not have discriminating taste.
-Cigars make me smell bad for about 48 hours. A shower cuts the residual odor by 75%.
-Finally, "The more things change..."
Monday, February 06, 2006
Points of reference: my previous roommates.
My first blog hasn't cast my current roommates in the best light - rightfully so, they are strange. However, by reviewing the highlights (I suppose lowlights would be better...) of some of my previous roommates, you may better understand why life isn't so bad. Because I may have inadvertantly emailed the link to this blog to some of said previous roommates, I will change their names to prevent further embarrassment and/or me getting my ass kicked later.
California: In Napa I lived with Bernice. She seemed nice enough. Forty five minutes after moving in, she let me touch her boobs (they were fake, it's not as bad as it sounds, trust me). I should have taken this as a warning.
Cooking dinner after work one night, I slowly became concious of a rhythmic sound I realized was a bed hitting a wall. At first I tried to deny that this was actually happening, but walking up stairs, other sounds confirmed my suspicians. This pattern repeated itself multiple times with 2 or 3 other guys during my stay in Napa. Often, Bernice and ______ would walk in the door, head up stairs, make the bed hit the wall, and then about 10 minutes after entering, he'd leave and she'd step outside to smoke a cigarette. As a note, 2 of the guys were roomates who lived 2 doors down. And yes, to the best of my knowledge, they knew they were each sleeping with Bernice.
As I alluded to above, Bernice smoked cigarettes. While she had some moral qualm with smoking them inside, the same cannot be said for her marijuana habit. The same guys who lived 2 doors down also dealt pot (I'm not insinuating anything here) - and I dont mean small amounts. They were licensed "care givers" in california, which means they had doctor issued cards stating they were only growing pot for "cannabis-card" holders, those with pain only pot can heal. All I'll say is that more than once I'd find pot in a cabinet, or in the bathroom, or on the coffee table, or in the kitchen, or next to the vacuum, and I was often awakened by the amount of smoke permeating the entire apartment (so much so that she'd deactivated the smoke detectors)... there was enough pot in our apartment to send us both to prison for a long, long time. and I don't think she paid for any of it (well, not with money, anyway).
speaking of prison, while I was living there, one of her friends went to san quinten for 18-25 years after being convicted of attempted murder, and another for possession of 2 lbs of pot.
Finally, one night I was sleeping when I was awakened by loud yelling, and someone saying "call Bernice and tell her to get that dude roommate out here, we're going to kick his ass!" Seems the guys from 2 doors down had gotten stoned with some friends, then smoked some meth, and really wanted to fight someone. lucky I was so close. at this point it's 2am and they're banging on the front door. I think it might break down, so I'm trying to think of somewhere to hide so 5 guys don't beat me to death if they come in. it occurred to me that the back door is not usually locked, and that I should check it. about 5 minutes after locking the door, they jumped the back fence and preceded to pound on that door, too. the whole thing ended when they decided to drive somewhere at 2:15. and after 20 minutes passed and my heart rate dropped back below 100, I fell back asleep.
Idaho: My roommate inTwin Falls, Gustavus, liked to drink. Some might say he had a problem with alcohol. At least 12 times last summer, Gustavus, who was about 6'4" and 235 lbs., drank enough to pass out and urinate repeatedly on the floor. see, we both slept on the floor because we never bought beds. so it's not like he stood up and peed in the corner, mistaking it for a toilet. I mean he just started peeing on the floor, between his legs, like a dog, all while very asleep. Sometimes this would wake me up, causing me to become nauseated, and I would sleep on the floor in the living room. Upon reentering the room in the moring, Gustavus would asked, "why were you in the living room?" I'd respond, "well, it was a little awkward when you started peeing on yourself last night, so I left." he then tried to play it off like an accident (which I hoped was true), but the next 11 incidences dispelled that notion.
Alaska: Leon was a character. His favorite passtime was drinking lots of alcohol and going "hogging." his favorite slogan was, "go big early," which he based on the idea that fat girls aren't as thankful if you don't give them attention early in the night. the summer of 2004 provided leon with a high "snout count." and honestly, I don't care about what leon does as long as leon doesn't bother me. but leon liked to bring the girls back to our apartment. he also encouraged them to be "loud." many more times that summer leon woke the rest of the roommates with his exploits, and after the first incident, it no longer provided humor.
that said, my current roommates are relatively benign.
California: In Napa I lived with Bernice. She seemed nice enough. Forty five minutes after moving in, she let me touch her boobs (they were fake, it's not as bad as it sounds, trust me). I should have taken this as a warning.
Cooking dinner after work one night, I slowly became concious of a rhythmic sound I realized was a bed hitting a wall. At first I tried to deny that this was actually happening, but walking up stairs, other sounds confirmed my suspicians. This pattern repeated itself multiple times with 2 or 3 other guys during my stay in Napa. Often, Bernice and ______ would walk in the door, head up stairs, make the bed hit the wall, and then about 10 minutes after entering, he'd leave and she'd step outside to smoke a cigarette. As a note, 2 of the guys were roomates who lived 2 doors down. And yes, to the best of my knowledge, they knew they were each sleeping with Bernice.
As I alluded to above, Bernice smoked cigarettes. While she had some moral qualm with smoking them inside, the same cannot be said for her marijuana habit. The same guys who lived 2 doors down also dealt pot (I'm not insinuating anything here) - and I dont mean small amounts. They were licensed "care givers" in california, which means they had doctor issued cards stating they were only growing pot for "cannabis-card" holders, those with pain only pot can heal. All I'll say is that more than once I'd find pot in a cabinet, or in the bathroom, or on the coffee table, or in the kitchen, or next to the vacuum, and I was often awakened by the amount of smoke permeating the entire apartment (so much so that she'd deactivated the smoke detectors)... there was enough pot in our apartment to send us both to prison for a long, long time. and I don't think she paid for any of it (well, not with money, anyway).
speaking of prison, while I was living there, one of her friends went to san quinten for 18-25 years after being convicted of attempted murder, and another for possession of 2 lbs of pot.
Finally, one night I was sleeping when I was awakened by loud yelling, and someone saying "call Bernice and tell her to get that dude roommate out here, we're going to kick his ass!" Seems the guys from 2 doors down had gotten stoned with some friends, then smoked some meth, and really wanted to fight someone. lucky I was so close. at this point it's 2am and they're banging on the front door. I think it might break down, so I'm trying to think of somewhere to hide so 5 guys don't beat me to death if they come in. it occurred to me that the back door is not usually locked, and that I should check it. about 5 minutes after locking the door, they jumped the back fence and preceded to pound on that door, too. the whole thing ended when they decided to drive somewhere at 2:15. and after 20 minutes passed and my heart rate dropped back below 100, I fell back asleep.
Idaho: My roommate inTwin Falls, Gustavus, liked to drink. Some might say he had a problem with alcohol. At least 12 times last summer, Gustavus, who was about 6'4" and 235 lbs., drank enough to pass out and urinate repeatedly on the floor. see, we both slept on the floor because we never bought beds. so it's not like he stood up and peed in the corner, mistaking it for a toilet. I mean he just started peeing on the floor, between his legs, like a dog, all while very asleep. Sometimes this would wake me up, causing me to become nauseated, and I would sleep on the floor in the living room. Upon reentering the room in the moring, Gustavus would asked, "why were you in the living room?" I'd respond, "well, it was a little awkward when you started peeing on yourself last night, so I left." he then tried to play it off like an accident (which I hoped was true), but the next 11 incidences dispelled that notion.
Alaska: Leon was a character. His favorite passtime was drinking lots of alcohol and going "hogging." his favorite slogan was, "go big early," which he based on the idea that fat girls aren't as thankful if you don't give them attention early in the night. the summer of 2004 provided leon with a high "snout count." and honestly, I don't care about what leon does as long as leon doesn't bother me. but leon liked to bring the girls back to our apartment. he also encouraged them to be "loud." many more times that summer leon woke the rest of the roommates with his exploits, and after the first incident, it no longer provided humor.
that said, my current roommates are relatively benign.
Living with notes.
For those of you who don't know, I live with two sixty year old women. The owner is a co-worker of a friend of a friend. She's taken me on as a renter because she needs a couple extra bucks these days. She's nice enough, but she's also OCD and passive/aggressive. She has this habit of leaving notes around the house, notes which are not addressed to anyone (as if anyone else would be here, reading these notes). I will give some examples:
On the toaster oven ( 2 notes ): "Please reset toaster after using oven."
Simple enough, but why the hell can't you do this on your own? I managed to turn it to "oven," and you're too lazy/old/stupid to turn it back? Give me a break.
Also on toaster oven: "Make sure bread is over sensor in center of oven. Thanks."
Oooooooooooh. That's how it works.
On the kitchen table: "Please reopen the blinds and slide the chair back under when you finish eating. Thanks, Cheri."
Directions for using a table. Very helpful.
On the dishwasher: "To use, select 'water-saver' and 'no-heat dry'."
Again, very helpful.
On the computer: "This computer is OFF LIMITS. Thank you."
What makes you think I want to use your Tandy brand, Windows '95, no-internet, piece-of-shit computer? Step back and ask yourself that question. Then ask if the note is still necessary.
On her bedroom door: "Cheri's bedroom is OFF LIMITS when she is not home."
Give me a break. You're sixty, and I live in the basement. What could you possibly have in your room of any interest to me? Also, I'm not five years old. Grow up.
On the bathroom door: "Please re-open door if it was open after using bathroom."
Is this a joke?
One time on the counter: "Can we meet to talk about refrigerator space on Saturday morning. My food is freezing."
Sure, but how are the two connected? The refrigerator has a thermostat, which is like a thermometer to control the temperature. When the inside is cold, the cold-maker slows down. Adding food does not cause the level of cold to grow. If your food is freezing, turn the little knob with numbers in the direction of the word "warmer."
The other woman who lives here is a friend of the owner who has fallen upon hard times, financially. She has no job, two "rescued" cats, and leaves the house only once or twice a week. Sometimes when I come home, she'll be making food and ask me "how's the weather?" Sometimes I say sunny. Or maybe cold. Or maybe you should replace your slippers with shoes and walk outside. Do I look like your weatherman?
You ask, why do I live here? Well, for $200 a month, I get a furnished bedroom in the basement, complete with TV, bed, and dresser. I also get garage space and we live on a lake. I'm 5 minutes from the interstate, and 15 from downtown. I take care of things at home during the day, when the cat lady is in her room and Cheri is at work, and I leave at night. And this situation is MUCH better than my last two roommates...
On the toaster oven ( 2 notes ): "Please reset toaster after using oven."
Simple enough, but why the hell can't you do this on your own? I managed to turn it to "oven," and you're too lazy/old/stupid to turn it back? Give me a break.
Also on toaster oven: "Make sure bread is over sensor in center of oven. Thanks."
Oooooooooooh. That's how it works.
On the kitchen table: "Please reopen the blinds and slide the chair back under when you finish eating. Thanks, Cheri."
Directions for using a table. Very helpful.
On the dishwasher: "To use, select 'water-saver' and 'no-heat dry'."
Again, very helpful.
On the computer: "This computer is OFF LIMITS. Thank you."
What makes you think I want to use your Tandy brand, Windows '95, no-internet, piece-of-shit computer? Step back and ask yourself that question. Then ask if the note is still necessary.
On her bedroom door: "Cheri's bedroom is OFF LIMITS when she is not home."
Give me a break. You're sixty, and I live in the basement. What could you possibly have in your room of any interest to me? Also, I'm not five years old. Grow up.
On the bathroom door: "Please re-open door if it was open after using bathroom."
Is this a joke?
One time on the counter: "Can we meet to talk about refrigerator space on Saturday morning. My food is freezing."
Sure, but how are the two connected? The refrigerator has a thermostat, which is like a thermometer to control the temperature. When the inside is cold, the cold-maker slows down. Adding food does not cause the level of cold to grow. If your food is freezing, turn the little knob with numbers in the direction of the word "warmer."
The other woman who lives here is a friend of the owner who has fallen upon hard times, financially. She has no job, two "rescued" cats, and leaves the house only once or twice a week. Sometimes when I come home, she'll be making food and ask me "how's the weather?" Sometimes I say sunny. Or maybe cold. Or maybe you should replace your slippers with shoes and walk outside. Do I look like your weatherman?
You ask, why do I live here? Well, for $200 a month, I get a furnished bedroom in the basement, complete with TV, bed, and dresser. I also get garage space and we live on a lake. I'm 5 minutes from the interstate, and 15 from downtown. I take care of things at home during the day, when the cat lady is in her room and Cheri is at work, and I leave at night. And this situation is MUCH better than my last two roommates...
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