Skiing at Steamboat, Colorado

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I sent this report to a friend of mine. Rather than put additional effort into something more eloquent, I opted for cut-and-paste.

Your words “dead meat” have been haunting me, so you deserve a report.

Steamboat was awesome. We skied 4+ hours Saturday and Sunday, with breaks for lunch and snack-beers.

steamboatFirst few hours each day were great. By the end of those days, I could do maybe 4 good turns after getting off the lift, then I skied like a little girl with measles for the remaining 3000 vertical feet. Lungs were screaming for air, legs were rubbery and painful.

My friend Terry showed no signs of distress the entire trip. He’s a strong skier and I hate him for it.

On the last day, we gave up by lunch time. Well, I gave up anyway. Terry cheerfully said, “I’m OK with stopping. We can go into town and hit happy hour!”

It snowed about 10″ on the summit the second night. Skiing in powder is really fun if it’s not all tracked up and hiding really hard bumps. I suck regardless of terrain but felt awesomely cool on a few runs.

The bars on the slopes near the base area were super fun. Crazy characters everywhere. Many of them said they knew you.

BTW, download the Ski Tracks app. It is amazing.

Stay tuned for really lame GoPro videos.

Crossroads

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I’m at another bus stop. Metaphorically. It feels like life just dropped me off somewhere. Nowhere, actually. It’s not a destination; not a place I want to be.

It’s a situation and a state of mind. It’s empty and quiet. Plenty of time for rumination.

I’ve looked into my soul (yet again) and it’s a sad and confusing clutter.

Maybe it’s just time for a change of scenery. Open the doors and windows. Let a fresh breeze blow through a dusty, sullen heart.

Massively Stupid

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The use of the word massive has finally reached the point where I have to bitch about it.

This is to all you journalists.  Especially those in the automotive world where your job seems to require knowledge of at least 10,000 forms of hyperbole before getting a foot in the door.  To many of you, massive is just another word for “really a super whole bunch”.

Mass is a fundamental concept in physics.  In the most basic sense, mass is a quantity of matter.  The Washington Monument, a peanut M&M, and the air in my car tires (which I should go check) all have mass.  Therefore, the term massive should be applied to things that can be broken, squished, dropped, eaten, thrown, and so on.

Energy is another basic principle in our physical world.  One way to define it is “a state of being”.  Energy is not matter, so it doesn’t have mass.  Although it can be related to mass (think Albert Einstein and the mass-energy equivalence formula E = mc²), it is a very different concept.

So that brings me to my rant.  I was perusing a magazine article about a new hybrid car when I read this darling little sentence.

This process drastically cuts down on production time as well as wasted material and the massive amount of energy that traditional carbon manufacturing requires.

It’s a clumsy collection of words, that’s for sure.  But the guy who wrote it was was probably on a deadline so we’ll let that assessment slide.  (Let’s hope the editor was slammed with work, too.)

But our dear reporter tossed the final straw into this camel’s basket, and I’m not having it.  “Massive amount of energy” is an outrageous phrase.   I don’t care if you got a D in high school physics, you boob.  You can’t have “massive energy”.  You can have super whole bunches of it but not massive amounts.

Furthermore, massive already implies quantity, so it is redundant to add the word amount. 

So stop it.  Stop putting that word on your hot dog along with amazing, awesome, mind-blowing, incredible, and massive amounts of horseradish.

Fragrant Pies From Hell

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I have this cheap fabric softener that congeals if it sits too long.  So I give it a good shake before use.

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Tonight, I gave that blue jug one mighty heave and the shit exploded everywhere, mostly in my face.

I guess I didn’t tighten the cap the last time I used it.

A deep primal instinct told me to cry, but i stifled it.  I staggered to the kitchen and stuffed my head under a deluge of cold water from the kitchen faucet.  For a split second, I was frozen in shock.  It was like getting slapped in the face with a soapy pie.

Then I ran to the bathroom to rinse my burning eyes with saline solution.

What a mess.  Lesson learned.

Game Over

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Last day on the job. It’s always a mix of feelings. The strongest are relief and excitement. Humility and sadness aren’t far behind.

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It feels good to quit.  The yoke of anxiety and mundane responsibility slowly lifts off my shoulders.  A fresh breeze of anticipation wafts in as I prepare for a new journey.  I’ll be meeting new people and learning new things.  I have a chance to start again with renewed hope and the will to do it better.

My work life reminds me of the video arcades I frequented when I was a kid.   After playing for a while, I get tired and move to another machine.  My jobs are not entertainment devices, but they do contain puzzles to solve and challenges to answer.  And, like the cursed video games, victory isn’t always within reach.  Sometimes the game is too hard and I don’t have the skill to win it.  Sometimes I don’t have enough resources (quarters, hours, colleagues).  But usually, the game just loses its appeal.

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It’s touching when co-workers wish me luck and say goodbye.  I try not to look too happy.  I’m the one leaving. I enjoy these times of change.  But sometimes people are stuck.  Maybe the company isn’t doing well.  Maybe he has a shitty job he can’t get out of. Maybe she has an incompetent boss. Whatever the reason, I have to be somewhat sensitive as I yank the ejection handle.

So bust out the donuts, cue the 2 hour lunches, clean out the cubicle, and let’s get this over with!  It’s been good to know (most of) you, but it’s time to hit the road again!

Ireland: Country Driving

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As an American driving enthusiast, I was excited to drive a car in Ireland.  Driving on the wrong side of the road with the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car would be great fun.  To add to the challenge, I rented a car with a manual transmission.  A stick.  So I would have to learn to “row the gears” with my left hand.

I studied these concepts on the Internet before I left and found a lot of helpful info.  Most drivers said that the adjustment was easy.  Some mentioned the little things that were confusing, like rear-view mirrors that aren’t where you expect them and turning into the wrong lane first thing in the morning.  I also found Google Street View to be invaluable.  Our trip started out in Dublin, so I could “fly” down the local streets and visualize the traffic patterns.

I wasn’t interested in driving in Dublin.  Like most large cities, it’s difficult and fraught with danger.  We picked up the car the day before leaving the city, with a clear shot out of the south side to the M50 motorway (in the Republic of Ireland and the UK, a motorway is a controlled-access highway similar to an Interstate in the U.S.)

Many dual carriageways and two-lane roads in Ireland have been updated in the last few decades.  They have paved shoulders and clear markings that are similar to roads in the U.S.

But once you wander off into the country, it’s hard to know what you’ll find until you get there.  Many roads can accommodate two vehicles moving in opposite directions, but only by very slim margins.  The “close” feeling is amplified by the presence of hedges and stone fences that come right up to the very edge of the road on both sides.

An oncoming tractor-trailer on a rural road can be a harrowing experience.  We rounded a bend on a road with very tall grass berms on either side to find a huge truck lumbering toward us.  I stuffed the little Citroen C4 as far into the grass as far as I dared and stopped. The trucker slowed.  They have huge blunt-nosed trucks with giant windshields that allow you to see the driver almost completely.  He was a young man with dark hair, sunglasses, and a mild sneer.

He gave me the “come on” signal and I immediately realized that it’s probably easier for a small car to work it’s way past a truck than the other way around.  I don’t know if that’s true, but I’m pretty confident at judging whether or not the car I’m driving will fit through a particular hole.  So I went for it and I made it without any scratches.

Another challenge on these roads is the appearance of pedestrians and cyclists.  When the road is lined with walls or hedges, there is simply no other place they can go.  We were flabbergasted at times, for the locals had no qualms about walking down a road with blind corners and hills.  Rounding a bend, you naturally lift your foot off the pedal and prepare to brake because you just don’t know what might be there.

And half the time they’ve got a dog with them!

Short of the race track, this was the most engaging driving I’ve done since I got my driver’s permit at the age of 16.  All the elements come into play.  Left-hand orientation, shifting with the wrong hand, tight quarters, and stunning scenery to top it all off.  You really have to be on your toes all the time.

Rolling Stone Magazine’s Stupid Lists

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One evening long ago, I was bored with the sites that I habitually surf.  So I went to RollingStone.com. I like RS and I like that I can read some of their better stuff online. (I occasionally buy the actual rag — and miss the original large format.)

I didn’t see anything worth reading on the “front page” so I selected “Music” from the second or third or whatever-level-it-was menu bar.

I don’t know if it was that page or the one after it, but Ho Leek Rap. I couldn’t believe how many “Best Lists” there were. You know: those long ass scorecards of Best Bands, Best Guitar Solos, Best Albums, and Best Best Lists? I can’t stand these things!

All you do (yes, that “you” includes me) is scan the list for your favorites so that you can see where you stand in the grand scheme of Bestness. Bestness is, of course, defined through a democratic voting process whereby People Who Really Know get together and choose what they think is Best.  Your preferences are validated.  Your preferences are ranked on a universal scale of Goodness.  You can put yourself among the Pantheon of Critics and be in a Club of Coolth.

I was all for the Top 100 Albums of the 1980’s back when RS came out with it. The Clash topped the list with London Calling, so right away you figure these guys aren’t suckling at the pop teat, right?  Even if you didn’t like — or know — The Clash, you had to respect the fact that serious rock critics chose it and they explained their choice with authority and eloquence.

So that was a good list to me at the time.  Probably because I was in my 20’s during that decade and it seemed important.  But it wasn’t.  It was just a list.  The kind of list that people waste endless hours of time and breath debating.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that Rolling Stone took a mildly entertaining, occasionally revealing, and always controversial concept and made it … stupid.

Flying

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I grew up near a small municipal airport. The buzz of small planes is ingrained in the sonic memory of everyone who ever lived in that neighborhood and, for me, it’s a pleasant memory.

My dad loved airplanes. The Civilian Aviation Administration taught him to fly as the United States prepared to enter World War II. He was trained as a soldier to recognize military aircraft by their silhouettes. Although he never became a military pilot, he served with the 351st Fighter Squadron near London until the end of the war. He spoke fondly of his time stateside flying Piper Cubs.

I always hoped to learn how to fly so I could take Dad up into the sky again. As with too many postponed hopes for our parents, he passed away before it happened. I received my private pilot license less than two years later.

It was a wonderful learning experience but I found that the process of “flying in the system” that is, under air-traffic control, is a bit oppressive. Wasn’t really as fun as I thought it would be. Aerobatic flying — flying for the pure joy of it — would probably be more satisfying.

I also didn’t find flying to be very practical in terms of getting from place to place. It’s very expensive and you still have to arrange for transport to and from the airport.

In the end, I gave it up and went auto racing instead. Not much cheaper to be sure, but I have more control over the vehicle, getting to and from events, and there’s a lot of camaraderie at the track.

I do miss it though, Dad, so maybe I’ll be back someday. It would be wonderful to get up there again, maybe in a small plane from grass strip out in the country.

Phone Numbers In The Clouds

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Tonight I arrived home and realized that I left my phone at work.

Damn.

The thoughts slowly bloomed like silly little flowers in my feeble brain. Here’s how they went,

I can’t text my girlfriend.

I can’t even call her to tell her I can’t respond to her texts, because I don’t have another phone to call with.

Even if I did, I don’t know her number.

Why don’t I know her number?

I don’t know anybody’s number any more except for my sister, who hasn’t changed hers in decades.

I should keep a backup of my phone numbers somewhere.

Maybe iTunes on my PC has my phone numbers.

Nope.

Do I have my girlfriend’s number in my GMail contacts?

Nope.

Well, this is stupid. But I can see it being more than stupid.  It would be catastrophic in an emergency.

Someone mentioned iCloud in an Internet forum related to lost/stolen phones.

I seem to remember turning on iCloud — something about auto syncing music to my phone.

I already have a cloud.  Google.  I don’t need an Apple cloud.

[The Rolling Stones’ Get Off of My Cloud plays in my head for a few seconds.]

Let’s try going to iCloud.com.

It’s asking for a username and password. My iTunes account?  Yep, that works.

There’s a contact list icon. Click it.

There are my phone numbers!

Well, I can’t call my girlfriend but it’s nice to know I have her number.

There’s a “Find my phone” button. Click it.

Wow! A map with a dot right at the address where my office is. My phone has practically phoned home!  It’s saying, “Here I am!”

That is impressive.

OK, so my phone is safe (as long as the cleaning crew doesn’t swipe it).

I can’t call or text anyone.

Yeah.  All good.  I think I can rest easy tonight.

So here’s a tip for all you iPhoners: if you haven’t turned on iCloud for your phone, you might want to consider it.  It’s not the only way to stash your important info, but it’s one of the easiest… and coolest!

Of Mice and Men

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Set a few mouse traps in the garage last week. I’ve noticed a mousey smell near the front door of the house since the weather turned cold. I know they inhabit the garage, but I’ve never seen one in the house so it’s always been a live-and-let-live balance. The smell tipped the scale.

I figure they live in the crawl space and in the wall on the garage side of the house. But I know they use the garage because I see the occasional flash of fur out of the corner of my eye when I’m working in there.

Traps set. Three dead mice in the first two days. Then nothing for a couple of days. Then a sprung trap last night, but no kill. Tonight, I saw a mouse at the back of the garage as I rolled the car in. He hopped adroitly over a trap by the door and vanished. Think they’re on to me?