fall moab (fruita edition)

Fall Moab isn’t always just about the riding.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s ALL about the riding.

But not always.

For example, sometimes it’s about the accommodations:

And sometimes it’s about the food:

Sometimes it’s about the bikes:

Sometimes it’s about the accommodations, but not in a good way:

But then again, it’s all about the riding. The riding in Fruita is good. Maybe the best. Maybe.

it’s pat

I’m here in lovely Washington D.C. for a conference (like Ethan Hunt, I’m only pretending to be a software marketing guy–really I’m a spy). Today, sitting in a panel discussion with three colleagues, I couldn’t help but notice that one of the panel members, a lawyer for a very (very) prominent communications company, was of, well, indeterminate gender.

He/she had super short black hair, but finely groomed eyebrows. An angular face. A very slight build. Large eyes.

But he/she was wearing a black man’s suit  [okay, to be clear, which I admit I wasn't, he/she didn't steal it from a black man, but rather the suit is black, and seemed cut/made for a man, black or white. Or whatever.] with a red tie.

“Absolutely a woman” I said to the colleague on my left. “I’ll bet you a dollar.”

“A dollar it is” he said.

As I watched him/her move about the room, and then ascend the stairs to the panel desk, I only grew more confident that I was about to be four quarters richer.

Until the moderator, sitting in the center of the four panelists, introduced him/her as “Ed” and described HIS illustrious career.

Chagrined, I pulled out my dollar and handed it over.

And, I swear, at that moment I saw three other dollar bills change hands around the room. At least I wasn’t the only one.

i object

You know, I don’t want to get off on one of those “things that must go” rants. That’s not my way.

And yet.

Something icky has happened three times in the last week. I can’t contain myself any longer.

Remember in Eddie Murphy’s classic (well, okay, not classic. Not great. But fun?) The Golden Child? He’s sitting there, talking to the crazy old Buddhist warrior guy who is the father of the woman he loves? Mid conversation, the old guy picks his nose, and Eddie says out loud what we’re all thinking–”You’re just gonna pick that? And . . . now you’re wiping it on your jacket.”

Well, I’ll be talking to someone, just, you know, in the middle of a conversation. Could be about anything. Work. Baseball. Healthcare. Bad Halloween treats. Whatever.

And suddenly (really) the guy (in fact, not always a guy) will, usually without pausing his train of thought, usually mid-sentence, dig a finger into his ear, root around for a second, pull said finger out, examine anything stuck to it, flick any encountered debris to the wind, and continue speaking as if nothing happened.

Ack.

Or, in an even more egregious act of social faux pax-itude, he will scratch at something directly on his face with the same results.

These are not social retards I’m talking about here. Not people who, if they suddenly picked their noses in a board meeting you would just shrug and say “Well, that’s Benji–he may be a social retard, but jeez you should see him write code.” I’m talking about people who are otherwise socially and professionally successful ladder climbers. Actual people.

Look, I’m all for personal grooming. Yes, keep your earways clear. Remove distracting and itchy acne or boils from your skin, especially your face.

But really? While you’re talking to me? Right in front of me? In mid sentence with me?

I object.

average

At what age do kids learn about averages in school? While we were watching game 4 of the World Series last night, Holden was having a hell of a time getting his arms around the idea that someone could get a hit 2.5 times for every 10 at bats. “Wait. How can you get a HALF a hit?”

I think it took me about a half hour before I had successfully explained how this worked. I finally got the idea across when I stopped using “for every ten at bats” as my scale and went to 100 and 1,000. Then it clicked.

Which really doesn’t say much for me, I guess, does it? I’m kind of stuck in a box. All of me, not just that one part of me.

why am i talking this way?

Did I go to Meet the Candidates Night” at Draper city hall last night? Yes I did.

How did I like it? I spent much of the evening texting my daughter, who was sitting about 20 feet away, funny things about the candidates and their pompous attitudes (and their funny hair).

Do I love when people talk in questions? How could you not love that? Who DOESN’T love that? Can you imagine me NOT loving that?

Do the candidates LOVE Draper? Are they DESPERATE to serve Draper? Do they think every single candidate except them is a a crazy Tax and Spend twit? Yes Yes Yes.

Are most of the candidates for Draper City Council bloviating knuckleheads who think they are the smartest guys in any given room? Um, duh. ARE they the smartest guys in the room? Have you ever been to a city council meeting?. Do I think the city will manage to run itself no matter which of these “politicians” (the 14 year old (I swear, he can’t be older than that) running for city council actually referred to himself as a politician, even though he’s never held elected office, and is running for DRAPER city council) wins the election to our little city council? Natch.

Why am I talking this way? I can’t stop. Did the candidates do every pompous thing short of refer to themselves in the third person? Wait, they did that too? They did that WHILE they tried to be self-deprecating? How awesome is that?

If all politics are local, we are in big trouble.

bad boo II: this time it’s personal

As the Godfather once told the undertaker down the street, “Bonasera, Bonasera, what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

I got Boo’d last night. Well, that’s not exactly true. I got poo-poo platter’d last night.

Think of the children!

Remember Boo’ing? You make some yummy treats, you leave them on someone’s doorstep along with a Boo Sheet the recipient can put in the window so people don’t Boo them again, and then the receiver Boo’s two other people.

Kind of like a multi-level Halloween network. But in a good way.

Except when you get Boo’d with the Poo Poo Platter. Someone’s trying to get a rise out of me. Kim insists I shouldn’t write this post, that I’m being mean. I say ME? I’M being mean? I’m not the one passing out the $1.79 crap sandwich. Someone is trying to get me in their Boo’ing downline. Well, I will NOT go gently into your stupid downline.

Here’s the Boo paper (slightly modified):

A blown Boo on so many levels.

My initial reaction:

But then I decided on a more fitting fate for these frosted pumpkins:

And that’s where they’ll stay all Winter. Unless I get peckish in the night. Which has been known to happen.

would that count as a poke?

Floss is weird. First, it’s just a string you wrap around your fingers, and rub between your teeth.

But my floss is made out of Gore Tex. Just like my ski jacket. Am I the only one who finds this weird? I was struck by the weirdness this morning, because I was flossing in the shower, as is my wont, and while tugging the super slippery, and (I assume) waterproof Gore Tex floss down between an old tooth and my shiny new crown, the floss snapped.

Apparently Gore Tex is water resistant and slippery, but not super strong.

Anyway, it got me thinking about the weirdness of floss. Which got me remembering the weirdest floss story I’ve ever heard.

A couple years back, I was talking with my friend Ben about a guy in the neighborhood, about whom I’d heard something weird. I said to Ben “Do you know what’s weird about [let's call him] Barney?”

And before I could jump in with my funny story about Barney, Ben said “That he’s used the same piece of floss for over a year?”

Picture me doing a comical double take, times four. I started to respond as if I hadn’t heard him: “So I heard he called the cops and . . . Wait. WHAT?” I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out.

“Yeah. He told me. He re-uses the same piece of floss over and over again. For like a year.”

“Wait. My floss breaks like 25% of the time. I would be down to an inch of floss in a week.”

“Yeah, I dunno. It’s what he told me.”

So, I have floss made out of Gore Tex. Barney must have floss made out of a single stretchy molecule not yet released to the general public..

And I’m not sure which is the bigger deal–that the floss never breaks, or the idea of accumulated gunk on the floss. How does he wash the floss? Simple rinse most days with a vigorous soaping on Saturdays? And where does he keep the floss? And does the floss fray? And WHY does he do this? Floss is not expensive.

I cannot wrap my head around this. And now Barney has moved away, so I can’t ask him. I feel like I need to get on the Facebooks and track him down and ask him. Would that count as a Poke?

how bad? real bad

On a scale of 1-10, ten being the most wigged out, how wigged out are you when you put your money in the machine and get the wrong soda/candy bar?

Does it depend on how wrong the candy bar is?

Like, how bout if you put seventy five cents in the machine, push A6 for a Butterfinger, and you end up with a Snickers? Notwithstanding that Snickers is somehow marketed as a newfangled kind of energy bar, that’s a solid SEVEN on the disappointment meter for me.

But when I put sixty five cents in the machine, push the Diet Coke button, and out comes a root beer? Well, that one goes to eleven.

maybe it’s not

I’m in a desperate place here, on the bubble, trying to decide if I’m a good person or a bad person.

The scales of justice in this case? The tip jar at a restaurant with no table service. Call me a sucker–I generally drop in a dollar. Or write a dollar on the tip line. I don’t know why. I realize they’re not coming out to my table. In fact, at Cold Stone ice cream, where they say they’ll sing a song if you tip, I drop a dollar in if they promise not to sing.

Am I just shallow, vying for favor from people I will never see again? Am I generous? I don’t know. What’s the next step, everybody asking for and giving dollars? That sounds like my relationship with my kids (sans the getting-a-dollar-from-them part).

But Kim has the most compelling argument–”Hey! Don’t give them that dollar. Give ME that dollar! I’ll go buy a diet coke.”

I guess to me it feels like giving a dollar to the guy at the stop light with the “veteran out of work” sign.

But, um, maybe it’s not?

it’s what we came here for

Instead of hunting for deer to put food on my family, I took the troops south for some Goblin Valley and some Arches last weekend.

It’s our happy place.

Fun for the whole family:

And best of all? Goblin poo.

the doctor is in

Ian badly twisted his ankle skateboarding a month or so back, and has been a bit gimpy ever since.

And yet, of course, he’s out on the trampoline with a tramp board practicing his tricks pretty much every day. And he hasn’t skipped any lacrosse games or practices. Not even when we warn him that ski season is fast approaching and he’ll want full use of his feet for when the snow flies in earnest.

All this got me thinking about ignoring doctor’s advice, something I’ve made a lifelong practice, especially if it contradicts, not so much my own gut feeling, but my schedule. That is, if the doctor’s advice interferes with fun, it must be stupid advice. If the advice gets in the way of work, or, you know, work, then I say Listen Up!

My brother Dave once broke his arm, had it set, rode his bike against doctor’s orders pretty much right away, and broke it again, but less cleanly. The doctor wasn’t so delicate with setting it this time. Hearing him recount how the doctor just grabbed his arm and “set” it still makes me wince.

But the best ignoring of doctor’s advice award has to go to Brad.

A couple of years ago, Brad noticed something weird about his heart. Not that he didn’t have feelings (he does) or too many feelings (he doesn’t), but that his heart beat a bit funkier than maybe yours or mine. He went to the cardiologist, who did a battery of tests and told him he probably had a congenital heart defect, some kind of hole in a chamber or something, and he would be very wise to avoid any strenuous activity until they could arrange an entirely new and more complete battery of tests.

So, of course, Brad rented a couple movies, and spent a few restful evenings at home, reading books and watching old films.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Or. Or rather than take the cardiologist’s advice (the guy who just looked at his EKG and such) to heart and waiting for the verdict, Brad decided to do his OWN test.

He went and rode up Big Cottonwood Canyon, setting a personal best time to Guardsman Pass. He figured, “If I die, my heart was faulty. If I don’t die, my heart is fine.”

Nowadays I run all big medical questions by Brad. He seems to have a knack for that kind of thing.

i don’t even have a joke here

I have the utmost respect for law enforcement. Really. I’m not one of those guys who says “Oh, I hate cops” or anything like that.

And yet, of the dozen (or two dozen) times I’ve been pulled over by the boys in blue, I’ve gotten off with a warning one time. ONCE. In my life. I’m not belligerent. I don’t yell, or insult, or insinuate. But I am, by now, resigned.

Couple weeks ago, I had another day in court. It didn’t go well. But you already knew that.

As I mentioned, Maddy got her car. She drives it to school most days, and most days the official parking lot at school is not just full, but overflowing. And so, a couple weeks after the school year started, Maddy returned to her Jeep and found a ticket on the windshield. Two violations: Illegal Parking, and Destruction of Public Property. The first was listed as an actual citation, the second as a warning.

I was not super happy with Maddy for this, until I saw where she had parked, and found out that dozens of students (and teachers) park there every day:

And when a quick look at the back of the ticket and the city website failed to stipulate the fine for the citation, we waited for further notification. Which, of course, OF COURSE, was a court date. Yay.

I figured, you know, civics lesson. The Jeep is registered in my name, so technically it was my ticket, but I thought it would be instructive to go to court with Maddy and explain to the judge the nature of the mistake. You know. High school student. New driver. The absence of any (not one) “No Parking” signs. No red curb. And the presence of dozens of other vehicles parked in the same place. Every day.

I was further encouraged by the two cases before us. First guy had driven an unregistered, uninsured car, with no license, and rolled it over, hitting another vehicle in the process. He pleaded ignorance, stupidity, and poverty. He had brought his parents to prove it. He had his fine cut in half.

The second guy was another student of the same local high school. He parked next to a red curb. His original fine? $30. He said “I know it was dumb, but I’ve learned my lesson, and plus there were lots of people parked there.” His fine was also cut in half.

So I was confident when I faced the judge. “Your honor,” I said. “It’s my car, but my daughter who was the driver. Where she parked is a vacant dirt area, no vegetation, no red curb, and not a single “No Parking” sign. And lots of others park there every day.”

And as if this judge knew who I was, as if he was channeling every cop who ever pulled me over, as if he was the embodiment of the very Park Service employees who wanted me thrown off a Canyonlands cliff, the judge’s face darkened.

“I know that spot” he spat. “There’s a CURB. You don’t need a sign. There’s a CURB.”

“Yes your honor, I realize that. But it’s a dirt patch. And people park there every day. And . . .”

“They shouldn’t HAVE to put up a SIGN! There’s a CURB! And they’re trying to re-grow that area!”

Um. This area:

“You’re honor, I don’t mean to argue with you. You obviously know the area. I just want to point out that . . .”

“That’s ridiculous! Everyone knows you don’t go over a CURB to park! They don’t need a sign!”

“Um. Yes your honor.”

“The usual amount is $50. I guess that’ll have to do. And it says here he only gave you a warning for the Destruction of Property. So I guess I can’t fine you for that . . .”

“Do you take credit cards?”

I don’t even have a joke here.

oh, that’s how you keep these things on

It’s been a while since I last shared an embarrassing story about myself.

I guess some of you would say every post is embarrassing in some way. I’m not going to argue.

Growing up, I was a bit, well, naive. Uninformed. Innocent. I lacked savoir faire.

In fifth grade my teacher periodically held a joke day. We kids would take turns going to the front of the class and telling what were usually knock knock jokes. You know. Because we were in fifth grade.

My parents subscribed to Readers Digest. As a fifth grader, I was a religious reader of Readers Digest–Life In These United States, Laughter the Best Medicine, Word Power, and all the little jokes at the bottom of random pages. Along with the occasional inspirational story of how somebody survived a plane wreck, or made the most of being limbless.

So one day I marched proudly to the front of my fifth grade class to tell the latest funny joke I had read in Readers Digest.

A man walks into a drugstore to buy a box of rubbers. The cashier says “That’ll be three dollars. Plus six cents for tax.”

The man says “Oh, THAT’S how you keep these things on.”

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

I walked back to my desk surrounded by a heavy silence. Nobody else got up. I didn’t notice.

See, my dad had a pair of rubbers he would pull over his shoes when he went out in the rain. Although, I was never confused about how he kept those on.

jake goes to eleven

Went up the canyon last night to roast marshmallows and conduct pagan rituals.

So if you’re wondering how many marshmallows I can stuff into my mouth and still articulate the words “Chubby Bunny,” wonder no more.

The number is ten. My mouth is large.

Unfortunately, Jake went to eleven. And I don’t think he even knows what that means.

zombieland with a bullet

At a recent time I don’t want to disclose publicly, I spent some quality team building time at the cineplex, where I was treated to the latest example of Woody Harrelson’s new genius–Zombieland.

It was awesome. So awesome it got me thinking of my favorite goofy monster movies. And while I hate to get too excited about something that’s only been around for a couple weeks, Zombieland is now on the top of the list, with a bullet.

Here’s the top five:

1. Zombieland–Brilliant. Funny, gory, tender, and, did I mention, funny? With a magical cameo by Bill Murray, and a line that, for some reason, still cracks me up: “I hate coconut. And not because of the taste, it’s the texture.” My only complaint? There should have been more virtuoso zombie killing. A quibble, I guess.

2. Tremors–I had forgotten about Tremors until recently, when me n the boys stumbled on it on TV. It’s almost perfect. And I can always use more Kevin Bacon in my life.

3. Shaun of the Dead–Described by Wikipedia as “a 2004 British romantic zombie comedy.” Hmm. If you haven’t seen or heard of Shaun of the Dead, or you aren’t into Zombie movies, it might be too late for you. Wait, what am I saying? Put it in your cue–it’s laugh out loud funny.

4. Arachnophobia–A rare combination of funny AND scary. Kept me out of my own basement for months.

5. Gremlins–Are you kidding? Phoebe Cates? Little monsters? The Bathroom Buddy? I’m embarrassed to say, I haven’t fired this one up with the boys. Putting it in the queue. And that reminds me, it might be time to see Fast Times At Ridgemont High again.

Honorable Mention: Eight Legged Freaks–Worth it just to see the giant trapdoor spiders jump out and snag the fleeing citizenry.

a little crazy

Tell me if this happens to you.

You’re in the car, you’ve got American Creation on cd, and as you switch back from NPR on the radio to the cd, because of something weird that I don’t understand that makes the cd need more volume than the radio, you have to pump up the volume just a tich.

But really, that tich must happen in certain, well, let’s call them increments. For example, maybe I listen to the radio at volume 10. And when I switch to the cd, I listen at 15.

Not 11. Not 16. But rather 15. Or 10. I have to force myself to listen at anything but round numbers. Although sometimes I do. Because who wants to be stuck in a rut?

But I find myself eying the radio. I can FEEL it when it’s off.

I can totally sit in a room with a crooked picture on the wall. I don’t care if the table is centered under the kitchen light fixture. My desk has a pile of 19 post it notes, each with important information or assignments. No biggie.

The radio, on the other hand–10. Or 15. Or 20. I wish it didn’t even HAVE the other numbers on there.

no truck balls

Two hot chocolate stand incidents from the weekend got me a little excited. And I mean “excited” in the “it’s on my mind” sense. I’d hate for you to think that I’m all excited. I’m not normally excitable.

But I came out of my local Beans n Brews the other morning only to encounter this:

Really? So the guy in the car parked next to me thought the best way to clear out the old contents of his mug was to dump it next to my door. Where, to avoid stepping in it I would have to be a member of the Cirque du Solei?

Here’s my barometer for this kind of action: If someone were watching you, and you knew they were watching you, would you still do it? Like, if I was standing by the front of my car, and this guy opened his door and saw me standing there, would he still have dumped his old hot chocolate right next to my car door?

Well, maybe. If he were the same guy I saw at a drive up on Saturday.

Check it out:

Okay, if you’re going to drive a giant truck like that, you should either be a Draper Mom or be sort of tough, right? Just for starters.

But, beyond starters, if you’re going to have that hanging from the back of your truck, how absolutely tough do you have to be?

Let’s look closer:

Now granted, the driver of this truck did look a lot like Sam Elliot. Which is pretty tough.

But this was a Starbucks drive up. Would Sam Elliot ever be caught dead at a Starbucks? Isn’t Starbucks where the yuppies (yup, I was in line) hang out? I’m pretty sure Sam Elliot would never have those hanging from his truck, because, let’s be clear, he’s Sam Elliot dammit! But Sam Elliot probably gets his hot chocolate at the same cafe Dirty Harry got his hot chocolate. Not Starbucks. And no truck balls.

this schadenfreude goes out to someone very special

Sometimes you gotta throw the people a bone. This bone’s for you, Shelle.

Last night I went to the Jazz preseason basketball game downtown. Met up with 3 of my brothers, one of whom has some season tickets in the lower bowl. Nice, right?

We’re just sitting there, minding our own business, watching the action on the court during a timeout, noticing the scoreboard where they are encouraging us to cheer for the employees of some credit union (I didn’t cheer).

And I’m suddenly struck on the head by a frisbee. Thrown from the upper bowl. One second I’m just talking to Rob, and the next I’m almost passing out, dizzy from the impact of a meteor.

The frisbee bounces off of my head, glances off Rob’s shoulder, and ricochets into the row behind us.

The guy behind Rob, with his front row seat to the whole incident, picks up the frisbee, shows his friend, and sticks it inside his jacket.

Not that I want a crappy credit union frisbee. But it would be SOME compensation, right? I could at least hurl it back.

My favorite part is when Rob tells Dave that he was hit with a frisbee. No mention of my head. I know this because later, when I tell Dave that my head still hurts, he says “Oh, did the frisbee hit you too?”

the world is upside down

I’m going to have to talk about bodily functions for a minute. Nothing crazy, nothing you wouldn’t see in the Nutty Professor or Flubber any other “family friendly” movie of the last ten years. But an incident during the drive home from Brad’s Gooseberry 100 set me off.

Ready? Okay! (The exclamation point is because typing “ready? okay.” reminded me of high school sporting events where the cheerleaders would yell that. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.)

So we’re driving home from Gooseberry, and we take a break from talking movies and such to stop in some small town for gas and a potty break. I wander into the gas station restroom, and take my place at the open urinal. There are two urinals and one is occupied by some old man.

In the middle of my business, I inadvertently release some of the gas created by the pepper Brad tricked me into eating back in Cedar City. The gas makes a noise.

And the old man at the next urinal makes a show of turning his head and giving me a disgusted look. As in “Seriously? You’re just going to FART in here?”

Here’s the kicker–I actually felt BAD for a second.

Why? WHY would I feel bad for inadvertently letting out a little gas while peeing at a urinal in a public restroom at a truck stop in freeway-town America? What is wrong with me? And what is wrong with that guy? (Apart from the fact that he actually LOOKED at me–everybody knows you NEVER look at someone in a public restroom!)

You know what’s weird(er)? If I had stepped 3 feet to the right and entered the actual stall and peed in there? No worries–Rip away! Or if I had actually sat down in that stall? I could have flatulated out my entire colon and nobody would have batted an eye. (Well, maybe their eyeballs would have melted, but still, nobody would have batted an eye.)

But because I’m STANDING at a urinal, suddenly I’m supposed to walk the high wire, I’m supposed to pee out 44 ounces of Diet Coke while simultaneously clenching my sphincter to avoid an awkward moment with the guy peeing next to me in a truck stop bathroom?

To quote Glen Beck (now THERE’S something you should have placed a bet on at 1,000,000 to 1 odds against ever happening on this blog): “The world is upside DOWN!”

what’s it about?

So we’re driving home from Brad’s Gooseberry 100, me, Brad, and Karl. Karl is driving, and we’re all trying to stay awake, we’re just ranting and rambling, talking about whatever. Of course, we start talking about movies, favorites, recent releases, guilty pleasures, all that.

And Brad says “I know I’m going to take some crap for this, but I really liked that movie with Samuel Jackson a couple summers ago, totally campy, but really cool. It’s called Snakes On a Plane.”

Karl, who is driving but may or may not be asleep, says “What’s it about?”