misdemean

This is pleasant:

But what’s across the street from this?

Cue the scene-changing music from Law and Order:

That’s right, it’s the Federal District Court. So, your first question is probably “Hey, do you know Stanley Tucci?”

Well, no,  no I don’t. And I have a question too. I know you call someone who has committed a felony a felon, but what do you call someone who commits a misdemeanor? A misdemean?

I must confess, I am a misdemean.

Wait, if you plead no contest, does that make you a CONVICTED misdemean, or just a misdemean? I need to watch more Law and Order.

Today the justice system worked as designed. That is, it spent thousands and thousands of dollars in FBI research money, investigation, travel, court costs, prosecutor costs, my very jovial and incredulous public defender’s costs, all in order to extract justice and collect $180. Total. For all three of us.

Let this be a lesson to you. Don’t Misdemean. Ever.

On Rawrod in April, Elden and I picked up a large rock together and threw it off of Vertigo Void, a horseshoe shaped cliff a 5 hour ride or 3 day hike (or a 300 foot rappel) from anywhere. Brandon videoed the event. The Park Service was not amused.

However, the couple of bailiffs and spectators in the Federal Court room WERE amused. The guy behind us cracked “Is it also against the law to skip rocks?” The prosecutor, keeping a straight face, called our egregious act Outrageous.

During the investigative phase, when the Park Service guy was calling us to get statements and such, Elden thought calling me his best friend would somehow help his case. In my conversation with Eric the Park Service guy, I went the other way, and said that I knew Elden “Pretty well,” and even got vague on whether I  knew Brandon at all.

Brandon’s tack was to say “Hey, I didn’t do anything! I don’t even know these guys! Can’t I just pay a fine and be on my way?” But, turns out he was the equivalent of our getaway car. Except the opposite, in this case.

To all you kids out there, let me be clear, Don’t Throw Rocks Off of Cliffs. And never never never video it.

Don’t end up a misdemean like me. Get  your eagle instead.

welcome to her world

So Maddy is into this boy, and he shows up at the door the other night to pick her up for a movie, and I answer the door, and he has on this t-shirt that says “Element” on it, and listed all over the shirt are the four elements, you know, Earth, Wind, Fire, Water.

I say, “Hey, cool, you have the elements all over your t-shirt,” and he’s all, “yeah, yeah I do.” So I think, without really thinking, cuz who really thinks in those situations, I think, hey, I’m funny, watch this, I’ll be funny.

So I say “I was thinking of getting a t-shirt with the 4 humours on it.”

Chirp.

“You know. The four humours . . . blood, phlegm, black bile, yellow bile . . .  HEY! LOOK! Here’s Maddy, she’s all ready to go!”

Overheard as they walked out the door:

Maddy: What was my Dad talking to you about?

Boy: I have NO idea.

Maddy: Yeah. Welcome to my world.

i’m doping

I was pretty excited to go riding this morning, cuz I haven’t gotten out lately as much as I’d like. I haven’t been sleeping so well, because Kim and I hadn’t noticed that the breaker on the main level air conditioner had tripped. I’m not so good at sleeping in a sauna. And, that all comes together to mean that sleeping poorly prevented me from getting up at 5am to go riding for most of the week.

Anyway. The plan was to leave Suncrest at 6:15 and ride down the south side, through Alpine, up American Fork Canyon to the top, and return. Probably my favorite road ride in the whole world, even when I’m fat and slow. Like now. (Mark’s ride report here. I link to it because I won the sprint. Win equals link. No win, no link. When it’s available, you’ll find the link to Elden’s video documenting my win here. Unless he edits out that part. You know. Because he lost. And I won.)

Last night, to ensure that I got the needed sleep, I took half an Ambien before bed. Now, I love Ambien for several reasons, but first and foremost, it guarantees a good night’s sleep the night before a big ride. Says that right on the bottle.

However, Ambien can also leave me a bit, how shall I put it, addled. You know. During the awake part.

I woke up this morning, stumbled into the closet, managed to put the bottom part of my cycling clothes on the bottom part of my body, and the top part on the top part. Then I wandered downstairs to get a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

That’s when I first looked at a clock, and realized it was 1:05 in the morning. We’ve started riding earlier lately, but not usually THAT early.

I shrugged, had two bowls of cereal, and went back to bed. It’s all good.

emergency!

Using our super nice bathroom facilities the other day, I noticed something floating in the urinal. Not a cigarette butt, not gum, not a fly.

A button.

Someone was in a hurry, and got a little rough.

I like to think of him running like that lawyer guy in Jurassic Park, when he runs from the Explorer to the outhouse. I mean, like Ian Malcom says, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Damn the T-Rex, full speed ahead.

my little charged particle

You know, I could have named my first son Itzhak. Or Abednego. Or even Scheherazade, although, I guess technically that’s a girls name, not that anybody he’s likely to encounter would know that.

And, in fact, Kim and I came THIS close to naming him Karch, after the world’s best volleyball player, once upon a time.

But we didn’t name him any of those names. We named him Ian.

Three simple letters. A name that, apart from Ian Faith, I’ve never heard mispronounced. Until this week.

The chiropractor called to confirm Ian’s appointment for the next day. She asked for Ion. As if he were were a charged particle. Which I guess he kind of is, but we don’t call him that.

I said “Ian’s not here.” She said “I’m confirming Ion’s appointment for tomorrow.” I said “great, IAN will be there.”

She called last night to follow up, which is nice. “How’s Ion doing?”

He’s died, full particle reversal, sad story. But Ian is doing great.

giving a little back

My Dad once offered me something like $200 to get my Eagle Scout award. He was from Canada, where instead of calling it a an “Eagle” they called it the “Queen.” Something about being an English colony, I don’t know. Really, it has nothing to do with this story.

Well, the part about him wanting me to get my Eagle is germane. Today, of course, he would be offering me a couple thousand dollars, due to inflation and all that. And he’d get the same response. Something along the lines of “sure dad, whatever.” And then we’d never discuss it again. Because I’m not really what you’d call a “Scouter.”

But Ian had a really good scoutmaster who got him off on the right foot, and once he got to Life scout, well, what’s the point of stopping there? Especially with how valuable having your Eagle is on your resume.

Ian also has a mother who had invested too much time to let him stop just shy of the Eagle. There’s a reason they say you should give the mother the Eagle, not the kid. And almost never the dad.

What’s the point of all this? Saturday was Ian’s eagle project. He/we got about 40 people to show up to build/improve a section of a Draper City biking trail. I’ve been a mountain biker for about 20 years, and until a couple weeks ago, had never done a single hour of actual trail work. If nothing else, helping Ian finish his Eagle has gotten that enormous, King Kong sized monkey off my back.

Some pics of the day.

The crew gathers (that’s Ian in the white sweatshirt):

We got to use manly firefighter type tools:

The real Queen:

Before:

And, after:

You can see the trail we’re trying to reach coming up from the canyon bottom across the canyon, middle right of the picture above.

Doesn’t this look like good trail? Wouldn’t you like to ride this trail?

I’m tellin you, I’m hooked on trail building. Thanks Ian.

is that everything?

I am a forgetful person. If you tell me your name to my face, and then ask me to tell you your name, I will have forgotten. It’s not that I’m not listening. Really. Okay, maybe.

But I’m still a forgetful person. I forget pretty much everything. That doesn’t mean everything is lost forever, it just means I can’t remember it RIGHT NOW. Eventually I’ll remember it. That’s how this blog stays in business.

But still. Having someone say to me “Is that everything” is not really any help. Especially when that someone is the clerk at my local Chevron, and all I’m buying is a coke. And maybe some Milk Duds.

Hi, here is the coke I’m buying, and my Milk Duds.

Is that everything?

Really? Are we just making conversation now? Do you SEE anything else on the counter? Do I LOOK chatty?

I mean, at Harmons at least they say “Do you need any ice or stamps today?” I like that. Very specific, very helpful, even if I pretty much NEVER need ice or stamps. I wish they would say “would you like any gelato with that?”

But saying “Is that everything” does nothing for me. You might as well say “popsicle.” As if I’ve been hypnotized, and “popsicle” is the magic word.

It’s not the magic word. And neither is “Is that everything.”

signs

You know how in Signs, Mel Gibson ignored all the signs? But then, after the aliens landed, he started believing in the signs?

That happened to me last night.

I had a window for a quick road ride between thunderstorms, and I figured I’d just roll out of the garage, down the South Side of Suncrest, maybe a quick tour of Alpine, and back up and home.

So, like always, I put in one headphone, hit play on the iPhone, and let Random take its course.

That’s been my riding music policy for years now. Full Random, no matter what’s on the iPod (iPhone). I LOVE the full random, but sometimes it gets a little weird.

Here’s how last night’s playlist worked out.

As I rolled out of the garage, I got Johnny Cash, Solitary man. I was groovin. And solitary. The random saints were smiling on me.

Lower on the hill, Bon Iver started wailing about Wisconsin. Elden thinks downhill songs should be jammin, but I like to mix it up–I don’t mind some introspective acoustic stuff on a descent. However, wind noise mostly drowned Bon Iver out. Bummer.

As I wound my way through Alpine, Jeff Buckley started in with the very haunting Hallelujah. This, of course, is a totally awesome song, only slightly ruined by its association with Shrek. How many awesome songs have been ruined by their inclusion in movies? And, conversely, how many have been elevated by their inclusion in movies? Depends on the movie I guess.

Hitting the backside of Alpine and beginning my return, I was a bit dismayed to hear the opening strains to the final movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Now, I have nothing against Ludvig Van’s 9th, a musical piece definitely enhanced by its association with A Clockwork Orange. Although, I’m sure you remember the closing scene from Tarkovsky’s Stalker, with the little girl moving the salt shaker (I think it was a salt shaker, it’s been like 20 years) with her mind, as you get a very faint whiff of the key notes from the 9th in the background. I’m torn. I think I’ll have to go with Stalker, because of the minimalist association. Anyway, a bit dismayed, because the final movement is 24 minutes long, which meant I would get classical music for the bottom section of the South Side climb.

But here’s where I had the epiphany–you don’t need rockin music to ride. You need GOOD music to ride. Music adapts itself to the section. And Beethoven’s 9th, well, who will deny that it has what we in the business call a Big Finish? And it’s no bad thing to have a huge choir of Germans singing Freude as you begin a big climb.

Unfortunately, after the first mile of climbing, I got Tiffany. Yup. I have Tiffany on my iPhone. I Think We’re Alone Now. But you know what? I LOVE that song. And, in case I haven’t made this clear, I WAS alone. So there.

Next the Strokes started in with The End Has No End. That song has no end. And as the climb felt like it had no end, I was not groovin. I may remove that song from the device.

Luckily the Strokes soon gave in to Radiohead. I have enough Radiohead on my phone that I can pretty much always be guaranteed of at least one Radiohead song on any given ride. This time I got Knives Out. And I love Radiohead so much that I typically don’t care which Radiohead song I get. They’re all good.

As I started the final pitch to the top of Suncrest, I recognized the bouncy voice of Regina Spektor, and I admit, my spirits sank a bit. The song was Apres Mois, and I figured it just couldn’t be the song to get me to the top. Until I started listening a bit more closely. “I must go on standing. You can’t break that which isn’t yours. I must go on standing. I’m not my own, it’s not my choice.” This was like the bit in Signs when they all realize in the living room that the little girl left those glasses of water everywhere for a reason. I got to the top.

Only to be welcomed by Kanye West. Jesus Walks. I’m telling you, there is a god. And he lives in my iPhone.

it’s all about the nookie

I am bothered by a few words. I’ve mentioned my dislike of the words “nostril” and “ointment.” And while I’m not particularly put out by the way my kids drop the “t” from “mountain,” I am extremely put out by the extra “a” in “triathalon.” I mean, I don’t like triathlons anyway, and I can’t really get behind something that extends the word or the idea.

On the other hand, it makes triathaletes look and sound stupid, so I take that back. Insert all the letters you want in “triathlon.”

I realize I’ve gained a bit of a reputation for hating the superfluous apostrophe s in “Hog’s Hollow.” I will not be drawn into that discussion. I’ve made my position clear. The hollow does not belong to the hogs. I don’t think, in fact, that there ARE any hogs there.

But there is a local word whose widespread mispronunciation continues to drive me CRAZY.

Please, consider the following. Here is the word:

Timpooneke.

Let’s break it down:

Timp-oo-neke. I mean, sure, at first glance, it’s a weird word, Indian in origin, and all that. The word describes a section on the backside of Mount Timpanogos (A word that is NEVER mispronounced). It’s pronounced timp oo neekie. Say it with me.

But really. From timp oo neke, the worst you could come up with would be timp oo nekie, where the “neke” has a schwa for the first e. Right? Or maybe a short e instead of a long e. Eck. Whatever.

Instead, here is what gets said by 90% of the local population:

Timp a nookie.

These are not just the uneducated masses. No, I hear the gentry and the nobility saying the word like this all the time. “Nookie.”

Because even these people can’t screw up “timp.” But give them “neke” and somehow they turn that into “nookie.” As in “Wookie.” As in Chewbacca. Whose IQ we’re apparently averaging here. How does “neke” turn into “nookie?” Without a lobotomy?

I am annoyed. Perpetually.

ouch

You know how everybody poops? But how some people don’t like to talk about it?

I understand that. It’s messy and stinky. However, poop is life. It’s like breathing. Except grosser.

Well, today I’ve got to get something off my, er, chest. I’ve extolled the virtue of the bidet on several occasions, in fact, on every available occasion. But I want to come clean (wait for it) about a certain “downside” to the bidet.

Here it is. If you’ve spent the day a little, well, looser than normal, requiring repeated trips to the outhouse, and you’ve also spent the day away from your home base, using someone else’s toilet paper, someone else’s facilities, upon your return to the magical bathroom with the magical toilet, you might breathe a sigh of relief, you might really look forward to the sweet sweetness that is the oscillating heated water spray on your nether ye.

Turns out, NOT.

I’ve never jumped so fast so far in my life. Oh the sting. Oh the awkwardness. I hit the spray button, waited for the magic, and it was like I had been stung on my ass by a swarm of bees (and I know a little something about that).

I’m not saying I don’t still love the bidet. I’m just saying, in the words of Captain Sergeant Phil Esterhaus, “Be careful out there.”

who are these people

I remember way back in ‘82, during the great war . . .

Well, anyway, I remember way back in ‘82, watching Paul Newman in The Verdict, for some reason this movie stayed with me, but not the whole movie, cuz that would be too much, whole movies don’t stay with you, but I remember very clearly the Big Reveal, when Kaitlin, the nurse, is on the stand, and she’s saved a copy of the damning evidence, the admittance form, that’ll implicate the big bad hospital. And she’s angry, not just angry, but FURIOUS, because these people have taken away something she loved.

“He told me to change the ‘1′ to a ‘9′… or else… or else he said, he said he’d fire me. He said I’d never work again. Who were these men? Who were these men? I wanted to be a nurse!”

These men. That line has stuck with me. It stuck with me last night, when a couple of yahoos at the movie theater tried to ruin my night. I don’t want to be a nurse, but I love movies.

I went to “The Hangover” with Rick n Sleepy. We tucked into our seats in the second to last row just as the last preview ended. And instantly I knew I was in trouble, because behind me was a couple that would have looked right at home taking tickets for the big spinny ride at a community carnival. You know those people? Who ARE those people? I never see them anywhere but at the carnival. Where do they live? What do they do when there’s no carnival? And where do they buy those shirts that don’t go all the way to their waist and those cool trucker hats?

Anyway, I know I’m in trouble because she’s practically in his seat, she’s already spilling popcorn all over her Dress Barn dress, and she’s talking in a voice like she works in that factory from the end of the first Terminator movie. And talks. And talks.

I haven’t been in a fight since 6th grade, and I got my ass kicked real good in that one. But I was so tense my hands were all balled up and sweating. I turned and looked. And looked again.

Sleepy told me to calm down. I asked him if he had my back.

Instead he told me to go sit on the other side of Rick. “Just GO.”

From over there I could only occasionally hear her laugh like a hyena and repeat for the projectionist the line she’d heard a few minutes earlier but only just now understood.

I sat on my hands. I ate my popcorn.

I swear, these things take years off my life. Who are these people?  Have you ever talked about movie talkers, and had anybody, ANYBODY ever express sympathy for them, ever say “wait a minute, I LIKE to talk in movies, piss off.”

Who ARE these people?

anne frank lives

You know how sometimes, you make a joke, and you realize right after the words are out of your mouth, whoops, maybe you shouldn’t have joked about serial killers, or, you know, horrible suffering or death?

Well, sometimes you just have to go for it. Sometimes the Holocaust joke KILLS. (Ha.)

Kim n me n the crew went to a Luau party the other night, and as the evening wore on and the rest of the guests trickled away and we sat on the couch, wondering what to do next.

I don’t know who suggested it, but once it was out there, playing sardines was inevitable, even though the Lava Flows we’d been drinking were the non-loaded, family friendly variety. I think.

We didn’t even ask Adam and Kacy, who’s house we were in, if it was okay–we just sent someone off to hide, waited a few minutes, and headed off to look for him. Or her.

At one point, several of us had found the hider in a dark bathroom, door closed, lights out, and we could hear the lagging searchers out in the hall, whispering, wondering, searching. For us.

And Rick said, in a whisper, but loud enough for all of us squashed in the room to hear him, “I feel like Anne Frank.”

Is that one of those “you have to be there” jokes? I don’t know if it is. What I DO know is that every time I think of it, I laugh out loud. Totally giving myself away, all over again.

because clean is happy

I would like to introduce you to the awesomest website on the Internets. This is what the World Wide Webs were made for:

http://www.washlet.com/

Please, click a bum. Listen for a second. Mouse over. Notice the eyebrows. Oh sweet heavenly eyebrows.

If I were in Marketing (Ha ha ha ha ha), this is what I would like to be doing–teaching people about that “happy washlet feeling.”

Enjoy.

dollar theater people

I love movies. Really, I just love em. I love watching them at home, or even, in this day of movie theater assholes who don’t know an inside voice from their, er, assholes, at the theater.

The REAL theater. Cuz there’s a place I simply can’t watch movies. That place is the dollar theater. And it’s not because of the crappy seats or the sticky floors, or the small screens or the scratchy sound. I get all that at the Broadway, but I still like going there.

No, I can’t stand dollar theater PEOPLE.

People who figure the bowling alley is booked with league night and “Hey, it’s just dollar, I can do whatever I want, talk if I want, cuz it’s just a dollar. What movie are we here to see again?”

I want those people to die. Maybe not all the way dead, but I want them to be mostly dead.

See, I’m not at the dollar theater (which I’m not, ever) because it just cost a dollar. I’m there because I missed the movie’s main run, but I still want to see it on the big (relatively speaking) screen.

So, you know. Shut up. Sit still. Stop laughing when it’s not funny. Or, better yet, get the hell out.

Thank you.

i will NOT apologize for this

I drink the milk at the bottom of the cereal bowl.

There, I said it.

What? It’s awesome. I’m not saying I prefer it to a freshly poured glass of cold milk. Not saying that.

But I AM saying the milk at the bottom of a bowl of Cap’n Crunchberries is magically delicious. Yummy.

I drink it. Every time.

Don’t judge me.

shut out

You get a lot of people with opinions on bathroom etiquette. For example, all men know that talking should be kept to a minimum in a bathroom. Really. No talking business, no talking movies, just no talking. Especially if you’re sitting. In fact, let me just say, no talking while you’re sitting. You can get away with some light conversation while you’re standing.

I’m pretty sure the difference in how strictly we enforce the no talking rule between standing and sitting stems from the amount of effort being expended. You know?

Anyway, I have an area of bathroom etiquette I’m unclear on, which really, at my advanced age, shocks me. How could I not know, since I’ve used public restrooms pretty much, well, forever.

Here it is–barring large bathrooms like those you find at stadiums, movie theaters, symphony hall, and my brother’s house, what’s the proper procedure when you head for the bathroom and walk in confidently, only to discover ALL stalls and urinals occupied? Like, here’s MY work bathroom:

What’s my plan for walking in and finding nothing but the sink free? Do I queue up behind the urinal guy? Do I wait near the door, trying not to act interested or desperate? Play with my phone?

I’m talking about bathrooms with maybe one urinal and two stalls, that sort of thing. Not a large space, and certainly not a comfortable one. Not a place I want to hang out in.

I say, you leave immediately and either loiter at the fax/copy machine, or go back to your cube (if it’s nearby) and listen for the flush (which, lamentably, I CAN hear from my cube). Then saunter back to the bathroom like you don’t really need it. Try to maintain some dignity.

But at the same time, remember, accidents are NEVER dignified.

like puppies in a box

On the three hour drive home from Goblin Valley over Memorial Day weekend, I had 3 teenaged boys in my backseat.

Don’t tell me there’s no love in the world anymore. Obviously, there’s plenty of love.

Like puppies in a box.

everybody gets a hug

The nice thing about the Special Olympics is that EVERYBODY gets a hug at the end. This afternoon, Elden and I held our very own, private Special Olympics.

The ride went down pretty much exactly as Elden predicted–he went out hard, I tried to keep myself under control, he got a gap, I wanted to die.  And on the second lap, we reversed everything but our actual locations.

Unfortunately, I felt SO icky on the first lap that I could have felt like Sam or Brad on the second lap and it wouldn’t have mattered. At the top of Clarks on the first lap, I seriously considered getting off and walking. Elvis and I spent some quality time together, reminiscing about his Army days.

But on the second lap, I felt good enough so as to harbor real ambitions of closing the gap. That was stupid. Although, in my defense, I think I could have shaved several minutes off my time if I hadn’t been attacked by a few thousand inch worms. I’m STILL picking them out of my hair and, um, other places.

But at least at the finish, I got my Fat Cyclist hug. Remember in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, when Ruprecht the Monkey Boy (Steve Martin) hugs that woman from Omaha, Lady Fanny of Omaha? The hug gets pretty uncomfortable, and Lawrence Chesterton (Michael Caine) has to threaten him with the genital cuff.

It was like that.

counter names

I hate telling the barrista my name when I order. You wouldn’t think “Doug” would be hard to say or remember or write down. But when anybody taking my number or order at a counter says “Can I get a name?” I say “Bob.” If I say “Doug,” one of three things happens:

1. “Excuse me?”
2. “How do you spell that?”
3. Blank Stare

I’ve experimented with names like Thermopolis and Mister Happy, but that just creates more problems. Because really, this is an interaction you’d like to be as short as possible. I like Holding Forth as much (way more) as the next guy, but not here, not NOW. We can talk when I give you my order. We can talk when you give ME my order. But I don’t want to talk when I give you my name. I want that to take no time at all.

I mean, sure, if my name really was Achilles, ask me about it. I would like that.

But don’t raise your eyebrows when I say Doug.

The downside is the number of Bobs. Someone is always taking my drink. I’m gonna find that guy.

the wrong side

I have heard of exactly one couple, married at least 10 years, who claim to NOT have sides of the bed. Sam and Holly, I do NOT believe you. They say they would be hard pressed to even identify the side of the bed they favor, much less always occupy. I say piffle.

Kim and I have sides, and I think they were part of the prenup. I sleep stage left, Kim sleeps stage right. Not that our bed is on a stage. Or even should be. No stages.

Hotel rooms or guest rooms are not part of the deal. The deal there is, what side does Kim want, and then I take the other side. Usually there is one.

Here’s the problem with the sides that Kim and I have agreed upon by common law: it’s the WRONG side.

Why? I’m glad you asked.

I can’t go right. How awkward and inconvenient is THAT?