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!