Confusion...

You can’t make this stuff up…

One evening, a month or so ago, I decided to run a quick errand. In my haste to leave, I left my cell phone sitting on the couch. Usually I just leave myself sitting on the couch, but that’s a topic for another blog.

I was gone longer than expected and Mrs. R became concerned that maybe I had developed car trouble and needed some help, so she decided to call me. She was sitting about 6 feet away from where I left my phone when she dialed my number.

Apparently my phone rang immediately after she dialed, and Mrs. R thought it was strange that someone else would be calling me at exactly the same time as she was, but she also knew that I was expecting a couple of calls. So Mrs. R answered my phone. It was very thoughtful of her, and I’m sure she had a nice conversation with herself…

What goes around comes around…

This past weekend, I went to the local building supply store to get some stuff, but mostly because I was running low on testosterone. Mrs. R said she might go visit her friend and run a couple of errands while I was gone.

I came home and unloaded the supplies to the backyard. Marci, our Golden Retriever, was excited to see me outside and was whining and generally making a nuisance of herself, and demanding to come outside with me. It’s really kind of annoying when she does this, and if you’re inside while it’s going on it’s impossible to ignore.

Anyway, a few minutes later I was standing in the garage on the exact spot where Mrs. R parks her car, you know, when she’s home, when my phone rang. It was Mrs. R, and she wanted to know if I was home yet.

“Yes” I said disgustedly, “I’m standing in the garage. How could you not know I’m here with all of the racket Marci is making?”

“I’m at the library honey. I’ll be home soon,” Mrs. R patiently explained. “Oh, and don’t forget to take your medicine. It’s on the counter…”

And now, for the encore performance…

One of our cats recently developed a problem that requires Mrs. R and me to give her an IV on a regular basis. We were at the Vets’ office for about an hour where they patiently trained us on how to do this relatively simple procedure. It was decided that Mrs. R would be the “needle-sticker-inner” and I would be the “cat-holder-downer.” We were told that it was very important for the inner workings of the IV bag to be kept sterile and to remember to change the needle before each use. It all seemed like sound advice to us.

The very next day, we were ready. To hang the IV, I had fashioned a hook from an old wire clothes hanger (it seemed important to us to have all four hands available) and we had converted to kids’ bathroom into a “treatment room.” All that was left to do was to change the needle and get going.

At this point I think it’s important to note that needles in the veterinary medicine world are every bit as sharp as needles in the human medicine world…

When Mrs. R tried to pull the needle out of the tube that runs from the IV, the protective cover came loose and she sliced her finger, at which time it started to bleed. I asked if she was OK, and she said yes, despite the drops of blood on her blouse.

I then offered to remove the needle, and being a “visual learner” I promptly sliced my finger in the exact same way as Mrs. R had.

Uh, one thing we forgot when we set up the treatment room was to stock it with basic first aid supplies.

So now we have two bleeding adults, an unharmed cat in desperate need of the IV, and no way to stop the bleeding fingers. Our options were to go downstairs and get some bandages, or call 911. We chose the former. So, while I stood in the bathroom with a Kleenex wrapped around my finger as I held it above my head, the wounded Mrs. R bravely went and found first aid supplies.

We were then able to successfully treat each others injuries, get the needle changed, and give the cat her IV.

I’m glad to report that the cat is doing just fine, but Mrs. R and I have a couple of sore fingers…

Dan Fogelberg

It was the summer of 1975 and I, along with some friends (who are now readers of this blog), had tickets to a Dan Fogelberg/Eagles concert at Red Rocks. My two favorite artists on the same bill, at the best place on the planet to hear live music, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect concert!

Unfortunately, when my friends and I arrived at Red Rocks, we discovered that Dan Fogelberg had tonsillitis or strep throat and would not be performing that night. Instead, Tom Waits would open. This was disappointing since most of us were not familiar with Waits’ music, and he often sounded as though he had a sore throat…

A few years later, after I had met, fallen in love with, and married a beautiful young woman, another opportunity to see Dan Fogelberg at Red rocks came along. We eagerly headed to Red Rocks, and he performed that evening. It was a magical night, despite the driving rainstorm that blew through early in the first set.

As I think back upon things now (and I know this is somewhat of a cliché) Dan Fogelberg’s music was a backdrop to my younger years…

The rollicking songs,

Love when you can

Cry when you have to

Be who you must

That's a part of the plan

Await your arrival with simple survival

And one day we'll all understand

One day we'll all understand

(Part of the Plan 1974)

The poetic lyrics,

Once in a vision I came on some woods

And stood at a fork in the road

My choices were clear yet I froze with the fear

Of not knowing which way to go

Oh, one road was simple acceptance of life

The other road offered sweet peace

When I made my decision

My vision became my release

(Nether Lands 1977)

And the beautiful melodies…

Listen to “Same Old Lang Syne” from the 1981 album “The Innocent Age,” and then listen to Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture” (at about 4 minutes in). You will notice some remarkable similarities in the melodies of these two songs. Dan Fogelberg did as well, and thanks a “P.I. Tchaikovsky” for his inspiration on the liner notes of “The Innocent Age.”

Dan Fogelberg composed and recorded some of his best music while living near Boulder in the 70’s and 80’s, and I bought most of those albums. Still have ‘em too. His music deeply touched me and that beautiful young woman I married, and it still does, even today.

Dan Fogelberg is the first of my generations’ music icons to leave us.

He died this past Sunday. He was 56…

City of Angels

Five or so years ago, after a business trip to San Francisco, Son Rogue came out and we spent a long weekend in the City by the Bay, and had a great time. A couple of weeks ago it was finally Daughter Rogues’ turn.

My week started in Seattle, where my coworkers and I got to enjoy the 2nd wettest day in the history of the Emerald City - enjoyable in a webbed-foot sort of a way. We did, however, make it down to the waterfront for a dinner at a place called Ivars

The food was delicious, I had the Seared Northwest Wild Salmon and it was the best salmon I ever had. If you’re ever in Seattle, give Ivars a try. Just be careful though, and watch out for the petite, curly-haired waitress. She is a food snob, and doesn’t like people who eat animals. Other than that she’s a lovely girl. Oh, except for the part where she tried to stick us with extra bowls of chowder and appetizers on our check. For the remainder of our trip, our waitress was known simply as “Ultra-Bitch.”

The next night our team was in Berkeley and we again found ourselves at a seafood place at dinner time, Spengers Fresh Fish Grotto.

This restaurant is also worth a try. Just remember that you’re in Berkeley, and it’s kinda like Boulder on steroids…

On Wednesday midday we were in Sacramento for another meeting. It was warm and sunny and we ate lunch on the deck at the Blue Gecko, which you may or may not have read about in the Feb 8 edition of Suburban Rogue

We got up early on Thursday and flew to Orange County, for our fifth and final meeting of the week. Afterwards, I met DR at John Wayne Airport; we rented a car, and were off to Hollywood. Well actually Studio City, to our hotel.

We decided to have a pizza and dine on the patio of our 4th floor hotel room. You don’t get to do that much in December in Colorado. I volunteered to order the pizza…

“Mamas and Papas Pizza, what’s up dude?”

“Yeah I’d like to order a pizza for delivery.

“Awwwright! We got some tasty pies maaan.”

Do you deliver to the Sportsmen’s Lodge Hotel?”

“Is that the big one on Ventura?”

“Yes”

‘Uh, I dunno… Hang on, dude.”

It occurred to me that I was having a real life conversation with Jeff Spicoli

Friday we woke to a cool cloudy morning and decided to go sightseeing, and hope for better weather on Saturday. We headed to Pasadena and went to the Rose Bowl, but we couldn’t get past the very large security guard. The stadium is a beautiful setting, and sits in a natural bowl with mountains to the north and east. While in Pasadena, we did not see any Little Old Ladies…

We then drove along Mulholland drive, and were treated to some spectacular views of Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley. For lunch we went to Hollywood, to the In-N-Out Burger across the street from Hollywood High School. There was quite a collection of characters in this fast food joint. Some of them might have actually been contributing members of society…

Somewhere that day we drove past a sign for Occidental College. DR wondered if that was where poor spellers Accidentally went to college…

We spent most of Saturday at Universal Studios where, as you can see, I purchased a new car. I’ve always wanted a Dodge Charger, and they just happened to have one. It was a little pricey, but what the heck. Just don’t tell Mrs. R…

On Saturday night, DR and I got all gussied up and she took me to a restaurant in Santa Monica called The Lobster , it is one of the Top 10 Seafood Restaurants in the Los Angeles area. This is a very cool, very hip place located right on the edge of the Santa Monica Pier. We enjoyed a terrific dinner, DR had Chilean Sea Bass and I had Crab Cakes, and then we followed it up with Wild Blueberry Cobbler for dessert, and a walk along the Santa Monica Pier. What a special evening!

Sunday was bright and sunny and warm, just in time for our trip home to a frigid Denver. We went back to Santa Monica, did a little sightseeing in the daylight, and then caught our plane home. It was 12 degrees when we landed Sunday evening, about 50 degrees colder than where we left, but it didn’t really seem that cold after such a great weekend.

P.S.

Another of our readers is having some health issues right now, so please keep a good thought for her… Thanks!

Homecoming

Thirty-two years is a long time…

The other day a friend sent me an e-mail that she had gotten which contained some photographs from a 1970’s era JC Penney catalog. The author of the original e-mail was having a great time making fun of the styles, and who could blame him? It was simultaneously hilarious and sobering to see those pictures. To think that my generation once looked that way (bad hair, bad clothes) is troubling…

Anyway, the photos sent me for a brief trip down memory lane, to my senior year of high school and the fall of 1975.

I really was not a BMOC at my high school, probably more of a Medium MOC, but I was an ambitious 17 year-old, and was always looking for opportunities to move into that upper echelon.

One afternoon during homecoming week, I received a call from a cheerleader asking me if I wanted to participate in a kissing contest with all of the cheerleaders during the pep assembly of homecoming week. Even for me, this was a no-brainer, and I eagerly accepted her invitation. I checked with my buddies, Bill and Mark and Doug, and they too had been asked to participate. We saw this as our chance to make the move to BMOC status (although in reality, Mark may have already been there).

The pep assembly went along as pep assemblies did in the 70’s, building toward the grand finale, the kissing contest.

All of the participants were then asked to come down to the gym floor where we were seated in front of about 1500 people (it was a big suburban high school) in a row of folding chairs that stretched across one end of the gym.

We were then told that we would be blindfolded, kissed by a cheerleader, then be asked to rate the kiss. Seemed easy enough.

As we were being blindfolded we were a) eager with excitement that we were finally going to get to kiss a cheerleader and b) eager with excitement that we were finally going to move up to BMOC. We anxiously waited for the cheerleaders…

The PA announcer said “Bring the girls out!” and as they entered the gym it erupted into a cacophony of laughter, hoots, hollers and whistles…

It was at this point that I began to suspect something was terribly wrong…

The girls lined up behind us, and when it was your turn the girl standing behind you would lean over and give you a kiss. As I recall I rated the kiss kind of low. After all of the guys had rated their kisses, the girls were asked to come around and stand in front of us, and our blindfolds were removed.

We looked up to see our mothers standing directly in front of us… That’s right, we all had just kissed our moms in front of the entire high school!

Take a close look at the picture at the top of this blog, it’s from my senior yearbook. That’s me, kissing my mom at the homecoming pep assembly, in front of my entire high school…

I never did make it to BMOC…

P.S.

50 bonus points for anyone who can identify the aerial photograph at the top of the blog.

For you AHS-ers, only 25 bonus points…

Metamorphosis

Earlier this week, the people I work for were nice enough to send me on an almost all expenses paid trip to the desert of northeastern California. My assignment was to perform an investigation of a building in which the roof beams had cracked. Now I know that looking at cracks is not that interesting for most of you, but for guys like me it doesn’t get much better. Fortunately for all of us, there aren’t that many guys like me….

I flew into the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon, and boy were my arms tired… (Sorry I couldn’t resist….)

Rogue Valley International

Medford sits in the Rogue Valley, which was apparently named after bloggers with marginal talent. Well, either that or the Rogue River.

The Rogue River valley was originally inhabited by Native Americans who lived along the banks of the river. The river got its name because of this, and was known as “The River of the Rogues.”

Rogue River

On the flight to Medford our plane flew a little to the west and a few thousand feet above Mt. Shasta. The mountain was on my side of the plane and we were treated to a spectacular view of this snow-capped peak. Geologically speaking, Mt. Shasta is classified as a “Big Damn Mountain,” and rises approximately 10, 000 feet above the surrounding valley floor and topping out at 14,179 feet.

Mt. Shasta

On Saturday, Mrs. R and I went to the CU-Oklahoma game in Boulder. Before the game we went to the bookstore and loaded up on some gear, then headed over to the field surrounding the Benson Earth Sciences building where the Alumni Association sets up a big ol’ tent, has some live music, and serves some good food. We were treated to a performance by the Golden Buffalo Marching Band, and then all of us got up and followed the band into the stadium.

The field around the Benson Earth Sciences building was previously known as Brackett Field, and was used primarily as a site for intramural sports such as flag football and coed softball. As a student in the fall of 1979, I was asked by some junior high buddies of mine to join their flag football team. Being all too aware of our athletic ability, we signed up for the B-League tier, which was the lowest classification possible.

I played tight end on offense, and defensive end on defense. My role in the offense was to stand at the end of line and, “if nobody else is open, maybe we’ll throw it to you.”

On defense, I was to stand at the end of the line and “if somebody runs near you carrying the ball, grab their flag.”

B-League Intramural Flag Football offenses and defenses were very sophisticated in those days….

A few days before our first “practice” I read in the school paper that the Boulder Gay Liberation (BGL) was going to field two intramural teams in the fall semester, women’s volleyball and men’s flag football. I thought to myself “that’s cool; they should be involved in all of the campus activities.”

I went to our first practice; eager to show the guys how good I was at standing at the end of the line. I saw our captain, shook his hand and said “so, who is first game against”? The poor guy turned ashen, beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and in a quivering voice he said “dude, we’ve got to win…”

It took me a few seconds, but then I got it. Our first game was going to be against the BGL. Now, intramurals was supposed to be a fun, low-stress, no-pressure way to get some exercise. But our team quickly realized that the all of the heterosexual men on campus would be counting on us. So much for fun, low-stress, no-pressure exercise…

At this time, the future Mrs. R and I had been dating for about a month or so. My father-in-law-to-be conveyed a message to me, through her, that said, “If you wish to continue seeing my daughter and to be welcome in my home, you better win the damn game!” So much for fun, low-stress, no-pressure exercise…

Game day was suddenly upon us, it was one of those glorious Colorado fall afternoons, with warm temperatures and clear blue skies. My roommate, who was also a teammate, and I left our dorm and made our way to Brackett Field. As we approached the field, we noticed quite a bit of folks surrounding the west end of the field, where our game was to take place.

Those folks included news trucks from a couple of the Denver news stations, and an all-male cheerleading squad wearing lavender shirts and white knit pants. They called themselves the “Lavender Express,” a not-to-subtle reference to the Denver Broncos Pony Express cheerleaders.

There were dozens of spectators surrounding the field, which was unusual for intramural sports. Most of the time, spectators included only the girlfriends of the two guys on the team that actually had girlfriends.

Late adolescence can be a difficult time for men, (actually anytime can be a difficult time for men, but I’ll save that for another blog) and so the unwritten code of flag football was that you used the shotgun formation for all offensive plays, be they run or pass. This was primarily done in case a couple of gorgeous coeds were to wander near the field as you were taking a snap… So our team used the shotgun, however, the BGL quarterback took the more conventional approach, and ahem, got right up under the center…

Anyway, once the game started, you forgot about all of the extra-curricular nonsense going on around the field, and played and had fun. The BGL was a good bunch of guys and they played just as hard as we did. We treated each other with respect, both sides had a lot laughs, and no one was injured. After the game, we shook hands and wished each other good luck for the rest of the season.

The final score of that game is lost to history, but let’s just say that I was allowed to continue seeing the future Mrs. R. Some video clips from the game were shown on the evening news, much to the delight of my future father-in-law, and our team went on the win the B-League Intramural Flag Football championship that year.

Last Saturday, the real football players played. Oklahoma was ranked No. 3 coming into the game and listed as a 22 point favorite. We sat up high again, and had a beautiful view of the Flatirons to the south and the mountains to the west. At the start of the game our seats were shaded by the club level seats behind us. Also, we were surrounded on three sides by OU fans.

The guy sitting next to Mrs. R., and clad in OU regalia from head to toe, asked “will it get warm when ‘at sun comes ‘round the stadium?” What I wanted to say was, “Yes, it’s the same sun you have in Oklahoma, and it makes things warm. It’s of the reasons there’s life on this planet, and because of that we get to spend our leisure time enjoying college football.” Instead, I just said “yes” and was met with a skeptical look from Mr. OU.

During timeouts scores from other games are often shown on the scoreboard. At one point the score of the Kentucky- Florida Atlantic game was flashed, and it showed Kentucky to be ahead.

I heard these sounds from Mr. OU No.2 sitting behind us.

“YepKintuckayzzzzzzzpurdygoodnissyeer.”

I had to consult with several linguistics experts, and as best as can be determined, what was actually being said was:

“Yes. The University of Kentucky has a fine football team this season.”

The Buff defense played very well once again, but the offense was having some trouble. The Sooners led 17-7 at the half. I told Mrs. R that the score was closer than I thought would be.

With 2-1/2 minutes gone in the third quarter, Oklahoma scored again, making it 24-7. I told Mrs. R. that is was over, the roof was going to cave on the Buffs, that I’d seen this happen more times than I care to remember. I was quickly chastised as being “Oh ye of little faith. Come on dude, it’s your team, don’t give up.”

She was right of course. Midway though the third quarter, CU kicked a field to make it 24-10, and that’s how the third quarter ended.

Then two amazing things happened. Mrs. R began to transform into a CU football fan before my very eyes. She was, yelling and screaming, and she even sung a couple of bars of the fight song. I started tearing up, and not because the Buffs were making a comeback.

Down on the field, the Buffs suddenly found their running game, and began to move the ball with some authority. With about four minutes left, the Buffs tied it up at 24.

The stadium was rocking. There was cheering, yelling, screaming, and big smiles on all of the Buffs fans.

Oklahoma got the ball back and went three and out. CU returned the ensuing punt to midfield, then calmly drove down to the Sooner 28 yard line and kicked the winning field goal as time expired!

Mrs. R and I screamed, high-fived each other and every CU fan we could reach, the students stormed the field, and it was the greatest afternoon ever at Folsom Field.

And one more thing very important thing folks. One of our readers is having some health issues right now, and will be having surgery week after next. Keep a good thought or two for her…

Buffaloed

Daughter Rogue and I went to the CU vs. Florida State Seminoles game Saturday night. I’m the "skinny" guy in black….

DR was mortified when I asked her to take this picture. She told everyone who walked by “He’s not my Dad!” And “I don’t even know who this guy is. He just asked me to take his picture. What a dork.”

The fun started a couple of hours earlier when DR came over before the game and remarked about my new CU (it’s not yellow, its gold) flag which I now proudly fly every game day, “Nice flag Dad. You’re a major nerd.” Ouch…

I was, however, glad to be upgraded from nerd to dork the closer we got to kickoff.

As we entered the stadium, I overheard a lot of people asking “Dude, what’s a Seminole?” I’m always so proud when the students of my alma mater display their depth of knowledge and an awareness of other cultures…

The Seminoles are Native Americans originally from Florida, with groups now living in both Florida and Oklahoma. They have the distinction of being the only Indian tribe that has never signed a peace treaty with the United States, and are known as the “Unconquered People.”

http://www.seminoletribe.com/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seminole

We entered the stadium and made our way to our seats near the top of the stadium. DR was very proud of me because I only need to stop twice for oxygen on the climb. I was proud of me too, until I got passed by a 68 year-old grandmother who was heading toward the top row two steps at a time, and not even breathing hard…

DR’s favorite part of a CU game is the “Ralphie Wranglers.” These are the brave young men and women who lead Ralphie onto the field before kickoff at the start of the game and after halftime. It is one of the greatest moments in college football, and not because the wrangler guys are “hot.” Not that I think they are hot, because I have no strong feelings either way, but DR seems to think that the wranglers alone are worth the ticket price.

Oh by the way, Ralphie was recently named the best mascot in college football…

Ralphie is No. 1

When FSU scores, their cheerleaders run through the end zone waving flags that spell N-O-L-E-S. DR suggested that since most people don’t know what a ‘Nole is, they should spell S-E-M-I-S instead… It’s also a good description for some of their offensive linemen.

During the first quarter we got to listen to the saga of Craig and Debbie from the people sitting behind us. It seems that C+D and met at a tailgate before the game and had agreed to meet in the stadium. The conversation went something like this:

“Go find her Craig!” said Debbie’s friend, who we’ll call Susan.

“Where is she?” Craig asked.

“She’s in row 76.” Susan replied.

“Which section?” an exasperated Craig asked.

“Our section. God Craig, you are so lame” Susan said.

You probably remember similar conversations from your high school days. The fact that Susan, Craig and Debbie are all 30-somethings is unfortunate, but pretty damn funny…

Anyway, we got to watch Craig spend most of the first quarter pacing up and down the jam-packed rows of Section 215 searching in vain for Debbie. Craig even called Susan, who was all of four rows from where he was standing, to help him home in on Debbie. Why no one thought to actually call Debbie is unclear…

Later in the game, while the rest of Section 215 was distracted by the action on the field, Susan exclaimed “Oh look, they’re sitting together! Are they holding hands? I think they’re holding hands! Oh my God!”

The CU defense was terrific, giving up only 16 points to the Seminoles, despite having to defend a short field on a couple of occasions. The Buff defense played with heart and abandon, only gave up two big plays, and never quit.

The offense played well between the 30 yard lines but seemed to self-destruct in the red zone. The Buffs do not have much of a running game this year, and finished the night with negative 27 yards rushing.

Generally the FSU fans were classy and respectful. There was, however one notable exception. On a drive in the 4th quarter, as CU was moving the ball with some ease, an FSU fan sitting a couple rows behind us kept yelling at FSU defensive coordinator Mickey Andrews to “Rush 4 Mickey! Come on! You’re so f**king stupid!” FSU was playing a prevent defense and rushing only 3 down linemen. The tactic worked quite well since the drive ended without the Buffs scoring.

I didn’t realize Coach Andrews was such a moron, because when I looked at the scoreboard it said Florida State 16, Colorado 0. I did some high level math (you know, carry the 2, divide by 1) and figured out that for a defense the best you can do is hold the other team to zero points.

I ‘m always amazed at how many coaches are in the stands instead of down on the sidelines on game day…

CU didn’t score until there was 3:38 remaining in the fourth quarter.

Final score: Florida State 16, Colorado 6.

So the score wasn't what I hoped for, but the company couldn't have been better...

A Banked Turn

So I’m at the bank the other day, and there are a few people in line ahead of me, and a few more at the teller windows. There is also a loud racket coming from behind the counter, it was the coin counting machine. Someone was cashing in a large amount of coins…

I know this because it took two tellers to lift the giant plastic fake beer bottle that contained all of the coins. Some guy had been saving his pennies since about 1972. Anyway I finally figured out who the bottle belonged too, since all of the tellers cycled through customers except for one.

This thrifty gent was about 45, pasty-skinned, and quite pleased with himself. When I got to the front of the line he turned halfway toward me and gave me that universal “half-nod, arched eyebrow, chics dig me” look that cool guys give to us un-cool guys.

I got the impression he was gonna take his $37, rent some videos, and go back to his room in the basement of his Mom’s house and watch them. Maybe go a little crazy a grab a pizza and some brewskis too…

Speaking of “chics dig me,” my name appears on page 49 of the August 20, 2007 issue of Sports Illustrated (first column, about halfway down the page). This is of course a lifelong dream of mine. The only problem is that the person they are writing about is not me, but he and I do share the same name. I really have no ethical or moral problem with achieving my dreams vicariously…

Plus, I now have a shot at moving into Mrs. R’s Top 100 (Re: http://srogue.blogspot.com/ from December 28, 2006).

Today I was outside doing some yard work in the backyard. I was home alone, and I had left the garage door open. When I do that, I lock the door from the garage to the house, and keep my keys in the front pocket of my shorts. My truck was parked in the driveway.

Big Mo has a keyless remote that also includes a panic button. It’s a nice feature, especially if some pasty-skinned 45 year old stud is thinking about beating me up in the parking lot at the bank. Sorry, I digress. Anyway, when the panic button is pushed, the horn honks rhythmically, and the lights flash.

So as I was out back and bending over to spray some weeds, I heard someone’s car alarm go off. There was all kinds of noise, a horn honking, etc. It was very annoying, and I was grumbling to myself about “the damn neighbors who don’t pay attention to a f**king thing and just let their car alarms go off and disturb everybody.”

After 3 or 4 minutes, the alarm shut off, and peace returned. By this time I had moved to other end of the backyard, closer to the front gate, and the driveway. I bent over to attack some more weeds, when that damned car alarm went off again.

At this point I am not a happy camper. I also notice that the honking horn sounds very close. Very, very close actually.

I’m thinking I’m just gonna go next door and let the neighbors have a piece of my mind. Not that I can afford to give too many pieces of my mind away, but it seemed like it was warranted in this case.

So I kicked open the gate, doing my best “that’s right, I’m bad,” getting myself all worked-up, when I notice the lights on my truck flashing and the horn rhythmically honking.

I sheepishly pushed the panic twice to stop the racket, and went inside.

So much for breaking into Mrs. R’s top 100…

Baseball, Plumb Bobs and Spoons, Oh My

In the midst of a difficult week at work, Daughter Rouge called and asked if I would like to go to the Rockies/Dodgers game on Saturday. That young lady has excellent timing and I gladly accepted her invitation.

As a youngster growing up in Colorado, I was a Dodgers fan. I’m not exactly sure how that came to be, but it seemed like a good choice. I mean Sandy Koufax, John Roseboro, Don Drysdale, what’s not to like?

In the 70’s it was Steve Garvey and Davey Lopes and Bill Russell and Ron “The Penguin” Cey; I became an even bigger Dodgers fan. The first major league game I ever saw was at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, Dodgers vs. Giants, to watch Fernando Valenzuela pitch. The dastardly (dastardly? Who still uses the word dastardly?) Giants won on a late inning grand slam by Jeffrey (don’t call me Jeff or I will kick your ass), Leonard. Not that I’m bitter or anything…

Anyway…

DR had found some great seats; we were about thirty rows up directly in line with third base. Our seats were right under the edge of the upper deck, so we were thinking that we might have some protection if it were to rain.

The game started nicely, with the Rocks jumping out to an early 5-0 lead. As we were watching the vendors work the stands, DR asked about a guy we called “Frogman.” Frogman was a beer vendor, who had a rubber frog clipped to each ear, wore beer cans for shoes and had a gravelly voice that carried two sections over. He seemed to be everywhere, we even saw him a couple of times at spring training games in Tucson. I told DR that I hadn’t seen him in a while.

Her reply? “Maybe he croaked…”

Along about the 5th inning, it began to rain. Wet sunflower seed shells were raining down from the upper deck. It was quite unpleasant for awhile, but the ushers finally got the problem under control.

It’s a good thing too, because sitting in the row in front of us were three couples, who had also received the shower. The ringleader of the group, fueled by the combustible combination of alcohol and testosterone, told one of the ushers “If you can’t get it stopped, then there are three guys here all over 200 lbs who will go up there and take of things.”

There’s a couple of things that are important to note about Mr. Testosterone and his buddies; they all had the number 4 as the first number of their age, and their 200 plus pounds were packed onto frames about 6” shorter than my 200 plus pounds are. Maybe their plan was to go up and bowl over the sunflower seed criminals…

After the game and the twelve mile walk to our car we started negotiating the streets of downtown. I got lost, no surprise there, refused to stop and ask for directions, again, no surprise. While waiting at a stoplight, a group of about 10 or so twenty-something dressed to the hilt young ladies crossed the street in front of us. They appeared to have had a couple of drinks and were likely on the way to the next bar.

“Oh my” came the remark from DR.

I think the ladies were from the I Phelta Thi sorority…

Anyway…

While stopped at the light at Colfax and 14th Street, DR exclaimed, “Look Daddy, that guy has a giant carrot in his head!”

“What? Huh?” came my thoughtful reply.

I looked over and saw this piece of “art,” which is essentially a hollowed out marble profile of a man’s head, unfolded, with a giant plumb bob hanging in the middle of the fold.

Wikipedia defines a plumb bob as “a weight with a pointed tip on the bottom that is suspended from a string and used as a vertical reference line.” These devices were quite handy in the old days (10 years ago) for folks involved in the construction business. Today they have mostly been replaced by electronic measuring devices.

I tried to explain this to DR, but she didn’t understand why you would need a plumb bob thingy when you could just use a laser. I felt the ol’ generation gap get a little wider right then…

Imagine a well-written transition paragraph right here…..

I have noticed that a lot of my mishaps seem to involve food. I’m not sure what that means, or am I sure I want to commit the $$ and time in therapy to figure it out. I guess it’s just one of those things that make me colorful…

Speaking of color, I became a little more colorful last night. DR and I went to the Coldstone Creamery for some ice cream. This is a very dangerous place, and I highly recommend it.

http://www.coldstonecreamery.com/

On the way out of the store in light rain, the lid came off of my ice cream, and my hand became covered in about $14 worth of a green-brown mix of mint-chocolate chip-fudge-brownie ice cream. Apparently the person (me) who put the lid on my cup needs some remedial training.

So now I’m standing in a parking lot in a rainstorm, frantically licking ice cream off of my hand while DR is doubled over in laughter. Actually, I think she was tripled over.

But wait there’s more…

On the drive home, DR was showing off one of the things she learned at college. As we were driving she was trying to get her plastic ice cream spoon to stick to her nose. She was successful, and kept the spoon stuck to her nose for 17 seconds, while the car was moving. Apparently this is some kind of a record, and she has now qualified for the Olympic Trials next spring.

I think I need a vacation…

Health Food

It takes a lot of work to keep my body in shape (round). It’s something I take a great deal of pride in. It requires dedication, constant vigilance, a willingness to sacrifice, and a nose for good food…

About 50 or so years ago, my father was in the process of being discharged from the Army, after spending a couple of years in the tropical outpost of Fairbanks, Alaska. He was spending his last few weeks as a G.I. stationed at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs.

One evening his buddy suggested they go out for a burger, he knew a great place not too far from the base. They ended up at Conway’s Red Top, home of the Giant Hamburger. Oh man, am I ever glad about that…

For about half of a century now, my family has made pilgrimages to Colorado Spring to “go get a Red Top.”

Conway’s Red Top

Recently, Mrs. R and I decided to exactly that, and headed south for a burger. Now these Red Tops really are giant, probably about 8 inches or so diameter (the burgers may actually be a little smaller than that, since I have been accused of having some difficulty in estimating sizes…) and they are delicious. They are made fresh right at the restaurant, it’s not fast food, and it is definitely worth the wait. I like mine with fries and a chocolate milkshake. Give them a try sometime.

After lunch we headed to Manitou Springs. There are some funky shops there, many of which are housed in some beautiful historic buildings. I think a lot of the businesses are run by hippies who couldn’t afford the rent in Boulder, or Berkeley, for that matter. It’s worth the walk around town just to appreciate the architecture.

On our way back, we were headed east, toward downtown, when like an oasis in desert, a Dunkin’ Donuts store appeared on my left. Mrs. R screamed out “IT’S DUNKIN’DONUTS!” and we knew what we had to do, it was something that we had been training for for a long time.

I slammed on the brakes and put Big Mo into a hard left turn, doing a 180 in the middle of the street and power sliding perfectly into a perfect parallel parking spot in front of the store, facing west. We synchronized our watches, then I looked at Mrs. R and shouted “GO! GO! GO!”

The operation unfolded with military precision…

Mrs. R jumped out of Mo, fell to the ground and feigned a sprained ankle. This diverted the attention of about 10 of the dozen or so of Colorado Springs finest who were waiting in line. When she demurely batted her eyes, grabbed her ankle, and said “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers,” I knew we would succeed. The chivalrous officers literally fell all over themselves trying to help the damsel in distress.

As all of this was unfolding, I ran up to the store, put a head fake on one officer, used my ol’ drop step move on the other, and found myself at the front of the line where I promptly purchased 14 dozen donuts, and a pint of skim milk.

Mrs. R extricated herself from the pile of 10, I ran back to Mo with the goods, and we high-tailed it home. Actually, at my age, it’s more like “low-tailing…”

And after fourteen dozen donuts, well, let’s just say my wagon is draggin’.

Changes

There have been some changes at Casa del Rogue recently, the most significant being that Daughter Rogue has moved out and is sharing an apartment with a friend. This means that Mrs. R and I are now “Empty-Nesters-In-Training.”

DR’s move went relatively smooth, but it did involve lots of switching of vehicles to make things easier. There was the usual chaos and semi-panic of moving, throwing stuff into boxes, tossing clean and dirty clothes in laundry baskets, etc.

Most of the move occurred over a weekend, but the work week began before DR was completely moved in. She asked to borrow my truck, “Big Mo,” to finish up. Since my choices at that point were going to work or helping move a couch into a third floor apartment, I chose work and gladly let DR take the truck. She tricked some friends into helping her, and the couch was successfully moved with no injuries to humans or furniture or vehicles.

By Friday things had settled down, and we all had our original vehicles back. I went out that afternoon to run an errand. For some reason, I looked in the back seat of Big Mo. I saw something I had never seen before, at least not in any vehicle I ever owned…

Lying on the seat was what appeared to be an article of women’s underwear that begins with “t” and rhymes with “wrong.” “Hmmmm” I thought, “how in the hell did that get back there?”

Thinking it may have fallen out of a laundry basket during the move, I asked DR about it. She vehemently denied that it was hers. Something along the lines of “Daddy, I would never wear one of those things!”

Thinking it might belong to Mrs. R, (although being somewhat confused about how it might have gotten there) I asked her about it. She also vehemently denied it was hers. Something along the lines of “Not even in your dreams mister! It’s your truck, and you’re asking me how a pair of women’s underwear got in your truck? I think you owe me an explanation!”

The advantage to sleeping on the couch is that it's in the coolest room in the house...

Science

I remember when I used to be nostalgic….

That’s a great line; I wish I could remember where I first heard it...

This past week was mid-year performance review time at my office. I told my coworkers that my plan was to blame my less than stellar performance on biorhythms. This generated a great deal of discussion amongst the guys, mostly about how stupid my plan was, and whether or not there was anything to biorhythms.

Biorhythms, along with mood rings, John Denver, and earth shoes were among the more interesting things to come out of the 70’s.

The theory regarding biorhythms is that our lives are affected by some natural biological cycles; physical (23 days), emotional (28 days), and intellectual, (33 days). Proponents claim you can use biorhythms to predict when you may be at your peak physically, emotionally, and intellectually, and use that information to your benefit. Personally, I keep waiting for those peak physical and/or intellectual days. I’d like to think that at 49+, I would’ve had at least one of each…

Here’s a link to a biorhythm site:

Biorhythm Calculator

If you were born in the Mountain Time Zone, select -7 from the pull-down menu.

Also, try the Dalai Lama Personality Test from the blue “Rubbish” button. I took this personality test, but I failed…

Note to reader: Imagine a well-crafted transition paragraph here…

There’s an old saying about men with big feet… Since about the 8th grade, I have had large feet, size 12 to be more precise. Anyway, in my case the old saying is definitely true. Men with big feet also have really big….

Shoes….

I used to have a pair of size 12 earth shoes; they were the most comfortable pair of shoes I ever owned. They were big brown, ugly, nasty-lookin’ things and I loved ‘em. Mrs. R, however, did not, and was often made physically ill by the sight of me wearing my earth shoes. So for the sake of Mrs. R’s health, as well as the general betterment of things here at Casa del Rogue, I reluctantly parted with my earth shoes.

Does anybody need some John Denver albums?

Huh?

Spanning the globe, bringing hard-hitting news directly to your screen. Here are the stories you could probably do without….

You might be a redneck if….

Man Cited for DWI at Drive Through



Who volunteered for this research?

Viagra May Help Travelers with Jet Lag



Now, I’m a sound sleeper, but this is pushing the envelope…

Man Sleeps through Gunshot Wound to the Head


To boldly go…

Beam Me Up, Scotty

Spring Fever

Several recent, seemingly unrelated, events have led me to a troubling conclusion.

I celebrated my birthday earlier this month, and up until that time I hadn’t noticed any memory problems. It has been a different story since then.

The other day, while driving home form work, I noticed I was running low on gas. Well not me; no wait, I was low on gas, but so was my car. I did some quick math in my head, and figured out that my car had enough gas to get me home, and most of the way to work in the morning. There is a gas station a couple of miles from my office, and I planned to stop there on my way to work the next day.

The next morning, when I was about 7 miles from my suburban office building, and about 5 miles from the gas station, the low fuel warning light came on in my car. Based on some previous calculations (I think Mrs. R should receive some kind of special commendation for having lived with an engineer all these years) I had determined that my car has about 8 miles left before it runs out of fuel when the warning light comes on. Since it was only 5 miles to the gas station, I wasn’t worried.

I pulled into the gas station, stopped my car, got out, opened the gas cap, and reached for my wallet. Unfortunately for me, my wallet was sitting comfortably on the dresser at home….

From the gas station, it’s about 20 miles to my house, but only 2 miles to the office. I decided to head to my office. It was not a low stress trip; I got stopped at every freakin’ stoplight between the station and my office, burning precious fuel for 20 seconds without moving, 5 separate times.

I made it to the office and called Mrs. R, who rescued me by delivering my wallet about an hour later. When I finally filled up, I put 22.46 gallons of gas into my 22.5 gallon tank. Some people might consider that an efficient use of fuel. I am not one of those people…

One isolated occurrence of forgetfulness? No big deal, everybody has days like that.

Then…

A couple of days later while at work, I was making some notes on a drawing with a red pencil. Something distracted me, perhaps it was something shiny on my desk, and I set the pencil down.

Then the phone rang, I got a couple of e-mails, etc. and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. It was at this time that I realized that I needed my red pencil again. It was also at this time that I realized that I could not remember where I had put the pencil.

Now, it should have been no problem, since I had several more red pencils in my desk drawer. I could have easily grabbed one of them and gone about my business.

But no….

It was incredibly important to me to find that pencil, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t losing my mind. I looked everywhere for the damn thing. The pencil, not my mind...

Drawers, trash can, lunch bag, books, folders, neighbors’ desk, all to no avail. I never did find it. Probably in a hundred years or so, some archaeologist will be sifting through the detritus of my professional life and find a lone red pencil. Godspeed to him/her. I’m sure that if I looked for one-hundred years I would never find it, nor would I stop and get another pencil out of the drawer.

In my desire to find the pencil, I figured out that:

a. I had wasted 30 minutes of company time looking for a #@!#*&#@! pencil.
b. The memory deterioration curve becomes very steep in your late forties. (I’d draw a graph, but there’s already been way too much math in this story…)

I was feeling sorry for myself, bemoaning my lost youth, etc., when Mrs. R shared this story with me…

One of her students kept pestering her for help with an assignment, and Mrs. R kept telling the youngster that he needed to get his paper and bring it to her, so she could help him.

The student kept saying “But, but” and every time he spoke Mrs. R reminded him to get his paper. This went on for several minutes until Mrs. R’s classroom assistant calmly pointed out that Mrs. R was holding the youngsters’ paper in her hand…

Apparently spring fever is contagious…

What Hath Orville Wrought?

This really happened…

A couple of weeks ago, shortly after lunch one blustery afternoon, the fire alarms sounded in my suburban office building, and we had to evacuate to the parking lot. The fire department came, and at that point we decided that it was something more serious than our annual fire drill.

After about 30 minutes, we were allowed to return to our desks.

As it turns out, someone left a bag of popcorn in the microwave a little too long. The popcorn was burned and the smoke triggered the alarms. I can only imagine the jokes at our expense around the dinner table at the firehouse later that evening.

Anyway, the next day an all employees memo was e-mailed to us. The management of our building has “banned the potentially life-threatening practice of popping popcorn in microwaves.”

I know popcorn isn’t the healthiest snack, but life threatening? Sheesh…

I wonder what’s next. I have both an electric pencil sharpener and an electric eraser at my desk. I guess if you’re not careful, you could put somebody’s eye out with either one of those things…

I also have a pair of scissors, but have never felt compelled to run with them in my hand.

We also have automatic flush valves on the urinals in all of the men’s rooms. I shudder to think at what might happen if one of those bad-boys malfunctions. Perhaps we should ban…?

Well, never mind…

Hacienda

Mrs. R and I had lunch recently. Well, we have lunch every day, but on this particular day we had lunch together.

We went to a Mexican restaurant along the main drag near where we live. It’s a typical suburban main drag; within about two miles you can find a mall, several national chain stores and restaurants, a couple of car dealerships, and 57 Starbucks.

We went to a place called Hacienda Colorado. It is locally owned and the food, influenced by northern New Mexico, is delicious. You should give it a try sometime.

Hacienda Colorado

If you go, be prepared for some unusual things. All of the servers (black-shirts) and managers (yellow- shirts) wear headsets with microphones, apparently to facilitate quick responses to all of their customers needs.

We arrived at about 12:15p and were promptly seated by a headset wearing hostess. Another person walked by our table, let’s call him Server A, and said he would be “taking care of us.” He turned the ticket over on our table. This is apparently code to tell the other servers that “this table is covered, stay the hell away.”

Server A went out to the patio to help some other diners and Server B immediately approached our table, brought some chips and salsa, turned the ticket over and took our drink orders. I was feeling particularly roguish, so I ordered a diet soda. Mrs. R ordered an iced tea.

Now, since the beginning of recorded history, at least in these parts, iced tea is served with a slice of lemon. Mrs. R’s tea was brought to the table, sans lemon, just as server A passed our table in bewilderment. Not at the missing lemon, but because someone had swiped his table.

During our entire time at the Hacienda, there were two managers that continually circled the dining room, giving instructions via their headsets. The Alpha manager circled in a clockwise fashion, while the #2 circled in a counter-clockwise direction. About every 3 minutes we were asked by one of the yellow-shirts if everything was OK. Not wanting to be impolite, we always stopped eating to respond to their question, always answering in the affirmative. It took us an hour and forty-seven minutes to get through lunch…

Anyway, back to the lemon. Mrs. R flagged down Server B (Mrs. R had to use a flag because the customers don’t get headsets) and requested a lemon slice for her tea. Server B promptly brought a couple of lemon slices in a small bowl and explained that they don’t put them in iced tea anymore because “some people don’t like them, and something happened in Florida.” After much discussion, Mrs. R and I determined that most lemon groves are in California, they had some rough weather, and the price of some citrus fruits had risen. We finally decided that the lack of lemons was a cost savings move by the restaurant to minimize the use of these highly valuable fruits.

A person we’ll call Server C brought our food to the table and we began to eat. The food was delicious. During the course of our lunch we had a good view of the patio an observed a handsome, 20-something young man having lunch with four very attractive 20-something young ladies. These gals were all wearing high heels, tight pants and tight clingy shirts (or so I’m told….). None of them seemed to be attached to the young man, and they all appeared to be vying for his attention. It was good entertainment, and there wasn’t even a cover charge...

I thought maybe it was an episode of The Bachelor and these gals were the four finalists. Mrs. R said she thought the guy probably had two things that I didn’t: money and an alternative lifestyle…

Anyway, about halfway through lunch I was in need of a soda refill. Heck I was goin’ for two, it was Saturday and Mrs. R was the designated driver…

Neither Server A nor Server B was anywhere to be found, but fortunately the Alpha yellow-shirt walked by our table at just the right time, and spoke into his microphone. Suddenly Server B appeared and offered to refill my drink. I don’t know where the hell she came from. She must’ve rappelled down from the ceiling, sort of like those SWAT guys do.

Server B refilled my drink and left. Server A then appeared and said (and this is an exact quote) “Are we tastin’ okay?”

Not wanting to be impolite, and also not wanting to provide an incorrect answer, I leaned over and bit Mrs. R on the shoulder, in attempt to provide a factual basis for my response to his question. Mrs. R cried out and slapped me (rightfully so I might add) and in the process spilled the remaining, high value lemon slices on the floor.

Suddenly there were six, black-shirt clad people with mops and rags and vacuums rappelling from the ceiling. One of them dove headfirst toward the table, trying in vain to save the lemon slices before they hit the floor. The others quickly cleaned up the area. A priest appeared and gave last rights to the unfortunate lemon slices.

We were escorted to the door by two guys named Vinny and Guido, assessed $28 for lunch, $123 for two lemon slices, and asked never to return, at least until the price of citrus fruit drops…

Spring

I’m in excellent shape for a guy who drives a desk for a living – that is if you consider round a shape…

Like a lot of people (well, maybe not a lot of people, I’m just saying that to make myself feel better), I put on a few pounds over the winter. It might’ve had something to do with being ass-deep in snow for two months. Actually that sounds more like an excuse than a reason.

Anyway, I had my bicycle tuned up a couple of weeks ago and have been riding it some. I even put a speedometer/odometer thingy on it. I’m not really sure why, I guess I want to see how fast I’m not going. I’m also getting very good at riding with a 50-lb. oxygen tank strapped to my back. I don’t go very fast, (except down hills) but I never run out of breath…

Another critter at Casa Del Rogue that is in need of some exercise is our 85 lb. Golden Retriever, Marci. She is a rambunctious, joyful creature that has stolen my heart (please don’t tell Mrs. R).

Marci has an arsenal of toys in the backyard, and that’s where we often go to play. She likes to play fetch with her yellow football, and tug-of-war with this green rope and tire contraption.

She also has another toy that consists of an 18-inch long piece of rope with knots at each end. Between the knots is a piece of hard red rubber, about 4-inches long. This piece of rubber has some groves in it and can slide along the rope, between the knots.

Marci will fetch this toy and pick it up in her mouth, usually at one end of the rope. As she comes trotting back to me she will begin to shake her head, causing the rubber piece to slide to the other end of the rope. We’re not really sure why she does this; it may be an instinct from when Goldens’ were used as hunting dogs.

Anyway, as she gets more excited, the shaking gets faster, and the piece of rubber will smack against the ground, or her shoulder, or both. It’s quite remarkable to watch, but you don’t want to stand too close for fear of being clobbered.

We have been teaching Marci to drop things she has in her mouth by using the command “drop it!” It works about 50 percent of the time…

The other night, after I came from work, Marci and I were out in the backyard playing. She fetched her red rubber toy and came running back, excitedly shaking her head. The rubber end was flying about.

I commanded her to “drop it!”

In all of the excitement, Marci must’ve heard “drop him” because with one shake of her head, the rubber end came around and caught me, well, in that place that makes grown men cry.

I fell to the ground in the fetal position, clutching my “nether region.”

Marci came over to investigate, licked me on the ear, and went about her business.

I came inside, iced down the injured area, and spoke as a soprano for a couple of hours…

Altered Egos

Those of you that know me, and since only 6 people read this blog, all of you know me, understand that I am quite possibly the world’s most boring individual. Okay, maybe not the most boring, but certainly in the top ten.

Let’s face it, I live in the suburbs, have 2.0 terrific kids, and work as a drone in a large suburban office building filled with other drones. I don’t ride a motorcycle, in fact I have never ridden one, but I do ride a bicycle. I don’t go real fast, or uphill, and sometimes the training wheels don’t work correctly…

Lately, I have been reading a couple of books about the Hell’s Angels Motorcycle Club. I find the stories fascinating; I’m inexplicably drawn to these modern day outlaws and their folk hero status. There is a certain sex, drugs, and rock ’n roll aspect to the books that is very entertaining. Mrs. Rogue says the books are appealing to my alter ego.

I didn’t really give that much thought until…

Mrs. R and I were running a few errands on a recent Saturday afternoon. We were stopped in the right lane at a stoplight near the local mall. A minivan slowly rolled to a stop in the left lane next to us. As the minivan was coming to a stop, a woman in the passenger seat was frantically waving at me as she rolled down her window. I thought maybe my car was on fire or something, so I rolled down my window.

A very attractive woman smiled at me and started to say something when she saw Mrs. R sitting in the passenger seat. She became flustered (the minivan passenger, not Mrs. R) and pretended to be lost and in need of directions. Being a male that has, ahem, never been lost, I gladly offered my help. The light turned green, and we went our separate ways.

I looked over, and Mrs. R was in hysterics. About three miles later, after she had regained her composure, Mrs. R said “I think that minivan chic was trying to pick you up.” This was followed by another three or four miles of hysterics (Mrs. R’s, not mine).

So now I’m thinkin’ that after reading some Hell’s Angels books my bad self is coming out, and the minivan gal really was trying to pick me up. She just didn’t realize Mrs. R. was in the car with me.

As soon as I got home, I got on my bike, and headed out for the open road, “lookin’ for adventure” as the old Steppenwolf song goes.

I made it to the end of the driveway before one of the training wheels gave out…

Education

A few years back there was a very popular book, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” written by Robert Fulghum. There may even be a copy lying around Casa Del Rogue somewhere. It’s an interesting book, with some good, common sense advice.

Recently I had the opportunity to visit Mrs. Rogues’ kindergarten class to talk a little bit about some basic principles of structural engineering, and to help the kids build towers using spaghetti and gumdrops. It’s a lot of fun, and exhausting, and educational. Sometimes even for the kids…

I usually start by talking with the kids and asking them a few questions; next we learn about pushing and pulling forces, and then we try and figure out if triangles are stronger than rectangles. After that the tower building begins.

I usually start with “Does anyone know what an architect is?”

Suddenly, the classroom becomes a cacophony of pint-sized Arnold Horshak’s, with nine hands in the air and nine little voices saying “ooohhh” “ooohhh.”

“Bobby, you raised your hand first, what is an architect?” I asked.

“I think it’s something that can kill you,” he replied.

At that point I knew I was in for an interesting day…

One youngster, dressed in camouflage from head to toe, told me he was building a tower from which you could shoot a flamethrower. I asked if he was worried that the flamethrower might cook the spaghetti and melt the gumdrops, causing his tower to collapse. He looked at me as though I was the biggest dork on the planet. I get that look a lot, now that I think about it…

Another youngster told me that he was going to be “either a fireman or a trash man” when he grew up.

Mrs. R teaches both a morning and an afternoon session, so I stayed for lunch after the morning session ended. Eating lunch with a group of five year-olds is not for the faint -of-heart.

Five year-olds don’t eat food so much as destroy it. It’s really quite remarkable, and should be a topic for one of those PBS specials. Food gets on their faces, hair, clothes, kids next to them, table, floor, chair, ceiling, walls, and other places to numerous to mention. Some food may actually make it to their mouths, but there is no scientific evidence to support that hypothesis.

I tried to convince the kids that Easter Bunny lives at the North Pole, and only comes south to get warm in the spring. My theory is that he needs a place to keep all of the Easter eggs cold. They weren’t buying it, and were very vocal in their opposition. I felt like a Democrat at an NRA convention.

Near the end of the day, one of the kids gave me a treasure map, and said I could keep it. Right before I left, he had a change of heart, and asked for it back. I don’t blame him, it was a fine map.

As I said, all I really need to know…

Lost In Space

Daughter Rogue (DR) is a user of some of the Internet's most popular sites, including Facebook and Myspace. Because I'm a hip and happenin' kind of guy (I actually wrote that with a straight face...) I thought I would see what all of the fuss was about.

Apparently, to use Facebook you have to be enrolled in college. That seems somewhat discriminatory to me, but since I am unwilling to re-enroll, Facebook was not an option. I mean, after cramming 4 years of college into 5, who wants to go back?

That left MySpace.

Myspace consists of a bewildering array of menus, options, and personal questions that only a youngster or rocket scientist could decipher. Since I am neither of those things, I turned to DR for help.

She very patiently helped me set up a profile page. The profile page is where you list a bunch of personal information about yourself so other people can decide if they want you to be their friend or not. It's really not that much different from a middle school lunch room...

Another feature is that your friends are shown on your profile page, so everybody else can see how many friends you have, and who they are. So, the more friends you have, the more friends you get. Kinda like high school now...

You can also rank your friends. This works well for awhile, at least until someone cooler comes along. Then some of your friends are going to drop in ranking. This is a nice feature if you feel the need to piss someone off without actually talking to them.

You can also ask other people if they want to be your friend. For example, maybe you look at Bill Smith's profile and decide that he seems like a decent fellow, so you send him a message and ask if you can be his friend, hoping that he will add you as a friend too.

I was able to add DR as a friend, with only a minor amount of difficulty, and after being labeled a "Myspace disgrace."

After that, and flush with the confidence that only success can bring, I thought I would try and double the size of my friends list. I opted for a famous musician who has approximately 94,000 friends. I figured someone that popular would grant even my request, especially considering that I own some of his recordings and t-shirts. Well, not his t-shirts exactly, but t-shirts you purchase at his concerts, of which I have been to a few.

Anyway, my friends list still stands at one.

Damn I hate middle school...

Wild Nerds

The movie “Wild Hogs” starring John Travolta, Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, and William H. Macy has been doing very well at the box office. It’s the story of four 50-ish men who head from Cincinnati to the Pacific Ocean on their motorcycles. They run into some difficulties along the way, and get into a bit of trouble. Mrs. Rogue and I saw the movie a couple of weeks ago and enjoyed it; the sight of some rebellious middle-aged men trying to relive their youth was very funny. And vaguely familiar…

I’ve been out of the office for two of the past three weeks, doing some field work. Those trips involved traveling with a group of 50-ish engineers, all of whom were, and still are, men. I’m not sure how rebellious we are, but we like to think of ourselves that way.

It was quite interesting to me how quickly our humor degenerated into that of a group of 12-year-old boys; with the main topics being gastro-intestinal distress and gravity-defying cleavage. Fortunately, no one laughed so hard that milk came out of their nose, but milk was not the beverage of choice on these expeditions…

If there is someone out there who knows a man that has matured beyond 12 years of age, please let us know…

Spring has Sprung

One thing that will become evident, especially as fall approaches, is my affinity for college football. It is, with one notable exception, the greatest activity ever conceived.

My favorite team plays up the road, at Folsom Field. I have been a fan of Colorado Football since I was a youngster. I can remember watching CU play Air Force in the late 60's, back when Bobby Anderson was working his magic for the Buffs.

When I was a student at CU, I had a buddy who worked in the athletic department. At that time, all of the football players lived in Brackett Hall, which is located across the street from the engineering building. My friend was also living in Brackett Hall, and one cold winter morning I had some time between classes, so I thought I'd stop in and say hello.

Brackett Hall is a long narrow 2 or 3 story building with a corridor down the middle of each floor, and rooms on either side of the corridor. The bathrooms are located near the center of each floor.

In those years the starting center for CU was an All-American named Leon White, who was 6'-3", 275 lbs, making him an inch taller and about 70 lbs heaver than me.

Anyway, as I entered Brackett, Leon came in the door at the other end of the building. Maybe, just maybe, with my down coat and hiking boots, I looked big enough to be a football player, especially at the other end of a long, narrow hallway.

Suddenly, Leon began growling, "wind-milling" his arms, and getting himself worked up into an advanced state of agitation. I think he initially though I was one of his football buddies, and he was messing with me. As we got closer to each other, Leon became even more annoyed, and I began to question my continued existence on the planet. I was not smart enough to turn around and leave the building, though it is doubtful that I could have outrun an All-American football player.

As we got to within about 30 feet of each other, an uncomfortably close distance in my opinion, Leon realized that I was not who he thought I was, and ducked into the bathroom. I burst into my friends room, locked the door and began piling furniture against it, and begged him to not, under any circumstance, open the door if someone knocks.

Mr White played in the NFL, and later became the professional wrestler Van Vader.

I survived my encounter with Leon White and became a full-time dork.

Anyway...

The Buffs are coming off of a terrible 2006 season, (2-10 overall, 2-6 in the conference), but hope springs eternal.

Spring practice begins on Monday.

Go Buffs!

Idle Thoughts

Like a bad dream, the Dodge Rockem-Sockem robots, which were mentioned in an earlier blog, have returned. The February 19 issue of Sports Illustrated contains a two-page ad featuring this toy. As an added bonus, there are two game cards that look like tickets to a fight. They can be used to go on-line and see if you’ve won a fabulous prize. All you have to do is enter the number on the bottom of the game card. It’s a clever gimmick, as these things go. What I don’t understand is why you would advertise how tough your steel truck is by having it pummeled by a plastic toy. But what the hell do I know? I’m in engineering, not advertising…

One of our loyal readers sent the following link:

http://douweosinga.com/projects/visitedcountries

This is kinda fun. I did the “Visited States” version and scored a 60%, missing the upper Midwest and parts of New England. Also, Alaska and Hawaii.

I didn’t do the “Visited Countries” version since the only International travel I’ve done consists of travel to Texas and West Virginia.

Let us know what your score is. Note that landing at an airport in a particular state does not count, unless you actually left the airport.

Not that I’m competitive or anything…

Speaking of travel, be careful next time you’re in New Mexico. Check this out:

http://www.freenewmexican.com/news/56749.html

I can just imagine a guy who has had a few too many, standing in front of the urinal, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. As he begins to, ahem, relieve himself, the urinal starts talking. Guaranteed the flow will stop. A woman’s voice in the men’s room will bring all activity to a complete stop.

Once (if?) he figures out that the urinal is talking, one of two things will happen – he will become instantly sober, or head back to the bar for more booze to erase the memory of the talking urinal…

Maybe they should put the faces of the Rockem, Sockem robots on the urinal cakes…