Damn, if only I could have waited a month and a half, I could have saved $300 off the cost of my new sexy thing (click on "Special Deals", then scroll down the page).

Of course, then it wouldn't have been a new sexy thing. It would have been a refurbished-to-new sexy thing.

Is that worth $300? Um... duh.

Update 4:03 PM 31 March 2006: fixed broken link • 6:25 AM 0 comments

A month or two ago, I forget exactly when, I was at work, and having contact lens problems. I keep some saline solution at my desk, so I took the saline into the men's room, took out my contacts, rinsed them off, put them back in... all was fine.

Except that I left the bottle of saline solution in the men's room. Forgot it was there.

Couple of weeks later, I was in the men's room and that bottle was still sitting on the counter next to the sink.

...or was it the same bottle?

Had somone else used it in the meantime? Probably not. But... I can't tell. And, just like girls are told not to use each other's makeup because they can pick something up, I'm wary of using a saline bottle or eye drops that someone else has used.

Trouble is, I can't tell if someone else has used it or not.

Is that paranoid? Yeah, probably. Better safe than sorry.

So I was having contact lense issues today.

Think I'll go up to the drug store and buy another bottle.

Better safe than sorry. • 6:42 AM 0 comments

This is my public apology to Christi. Back in February, she posted about running into some skanky (but in a good way) boys in her apartment complex who were playing and singing songs by a band called Travis.

I'd never heard of Travis before and asked her about them, and she recommended a bunch of songs, including (and I am not making this up) their cover of Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)" which, Christi insisted to me, was hawesome (although she might not have used that word). She also compared them to Radiohead, for which statement I berated her because there is no other band like Radiohead, past, present or into the future.

I made a trip to my favorite used music store and found two Travis albums in the used bin (I'm a cheap motherfucker), ripped them to my iPod and listened to them once through.

I bought "The Invisible Band" and "The Man Who".

I liked them - melodic and synth-heavy and definitely BritPop.

Lately I've been shuffling through my library, but once every couple of days I still like to pick out a CD and listen straight through. And in the last couple of weeks, more often than not, I picked one of the two Travis CDs. They have been growing on me. I haven't really added any new music to my collection in a while, mostly just picking up new releases from bands I already like, and I think my lack of newness has been affecting me - might explain why I'm letting the iPod do all the work of choosing my tunes lately. But Travis satisfies the need for new.

...to be perfectly honest, they're still not as good as Radiohead. However, they do come close. All they'd need is lyrics that are far more angsty, and to try once in a while for a completely different sound, to stretch out musically. But they're still good, and better than some of the other BritPop bands I'd tried.

(Like Manic Street Preachers. What the hell was I thinking? Blech.)

At any rate, this post is a public apology to Christi for doubting her and for dismissing the idea that Travis could have any comparison to Radiohead without, y'know, listening to the band first. I should know better.

I still haven't heard their cover of Britney, however... dammit, iTunes Music Store! Why don't you have that song? I've got all these free credits available for download... • 12:08 AM 0 comments

Widely reported all over the internets this week is the survey that is part of the American Mosaic Survey that is reporting that atheists are the least-trusted people in America.

Hey, can I say something, here?

I could go on and on on this topic, actually. So, after pondering this article for almost a week, I think I can pare down my response a bit, to just directly rebut some of the statements in that article without getting all rant-y about religion and atheism as a whole.

Basically, it boils down to this: Christianity in its modern, Western form, is predicated on belief. Christians are told that they are to believe something without evidence, and that they are part of a community that shares that belief. Forcing themselves to believe something without any evidence, or "just knowing" that some things are "true" even though those things can't be verified in any fashion is not just fundamental, it becomes a point of pride.

Contrast this to other religions that put the focus on the here-and-now, religions that require their adherents to put into actual practice actions favored by that religion. Sunni Islam has its "Five Pillars of Faith". Mr. Abrams, quoted in the article above, talks about Jewish acts being more important than belief.

But it's the Christian idea that has taken root in America - a focus on a perfect, ideal world and a rejection of this imperfect world, and favoring irrational mental stimulation over taking action.

Obviously, I'm simplifying here. There are many forms and flavors of Christianity, with different flavors of belief, just as there are many different groups of Jews, or Muslims, or Wiccans, or atheists, for that matter. My reader may argue that I'm constructing a straw man to knock down. I accept that it may seem that way, however, I'm only basing this argument on the article quoted above. "Belief" is used 13 times in the article, out of 605 total words. "Act" is used twice, and once as part of the word "actor", describing one of the people quoted. "Reasonable" is used only once.

The study is about what people believe, and what people believe others believe, and how they feel about that. My argument is that basing issues of trust on belief rather than action is going to result in problems, and that atheists are best equipped to focus more on actions, and are therefore more trustworthy.

Now, people can be atheists for many reasons. In my own case, I am atheist because the religious descriptions of God do not meet basic, verfiable, logical criteria. Without getting too deeply into it, take a look at the problem of evil. In a nutshell, the following statements can't all be true:

1. God is all-good,
   
2. God is all-powerful,
   
3. God created the universe,
   
4. Evil exists in the universe

Various ways to work around this problem have people re-defining evil, or finding ways to have God self-limit His power for some ultimate end that justifies the existence of evil. None of these explanations make any sense for me. And in coming to that realization, I understood that logic, flawed though it might be, is a valuable tool for figuring things out. So is science, and reason. All these things rely on reproducible results, and on observing actual events rather than imagining events that would be "better", somehow. So, for me, belief is all well and good but belief is trumped by reason.

I can believe lots of things. However, I can use various mental tools to discern between beliefs that actually produce positive results right here and now, and beliefs that get me or others hurt right here and now.

But, and we see this in the article linked above, people still see atheists in terms of what they "believe" or not. And, somehow, most Americans are frightened of someone who doesn't simply "believe" in invisible, unprovable things. Is it really that scary? I'm oriented towards action, and trying to find actions in this world that produce positive results for people right now or very soon, rather than having some vague, internalized belief that may or may not produce a positive result after my death.

In this way, I think, atheism (at least for me) has more in common with other religions - in my focus on concrete results, rather than ethereal far-off events that may or may not take place. Isn't having an immediate feedback loop for reinforcing decisions made, such as I try to practice, a better mechanism for producing socially positive actions?

And, that being the case: isn't that someone you would trust more?

Just sayin'. • 6:36 AM 4 comments

When did The Oregonian become a real newspaper, like we had in the olden days where the reporters would, y'know, report the news without "balancing" it with a fake opposing viewpoint?

First, I read about (on Glenn Greenwald's excellent blog) The Oregonian's lawsuit to unseal some crucial documents in a NSA wiretapping case.

Now, with all the excellent coverage of Dave Boyer's early resignation from the county.

Because the Boregonian only allows access to their articles on the web for 14 days, I've saved and archived them all as PDFs.

• 13 March 2006 - "County finance chief takes his leave early"
  
• 15 March 2006 - "Linn denies pressing finance chief"
  
• 16 March 2006 - "Forced out by the ongoing feud" (editorial)
  
• 17 March 2006 - "Financial chief asks county for severance pay"
  
• 24 March 2006 - "Emails script clashes between finance chief, Linn's top aides"
  
• 25 March 2006 - "Finance officer said 'no' to spinning numbers" (editorial)

I've also included the letters to the editor that The BigO has printed, Willamette Week's article on the topic, as well as another copy of Dave Boyer's original resignation letter.

But, maybe it's just because The Big O has decided that Diane Linn, Multnomah County Chair, has got to go?

I do notice, however, that the Boregonian has been silent on Dave Boyer's other accusation - of differential treatment for line staff, managers, and executives?

Damn, I'd like to bring that to their attention. I just wish I could think of some examples of that bias. Oh, well, I've got to go; I need to talk to a co-worker who testified against Jann Brown and is getting laid off... after interviewing for a new position on a panel that, completely coincidentally, included Jann Brown...

Update 28 March 2006 - I have added the link and the PDF of The Oregonian's front-page article detailing the internal battles between Dave Boyer and other managers at the county. Interesting read, and I completely forgot to include it earlier. My bad. • 6:50 AM 1 comments

I overslept this morning and missed the Bridge to Bridge 10K. I've been wanting to run this race ever since I started running, since the course goes over the upper deck of the Fremont Bridge, which would lead to some awesome views, I think. I've done the 5K before but not the 10K.

I was upset with myself this morning.

As punishment I ran up Terwilliger Blvd., from SW 4th and Mill St. (my start line), up through Duniway Park, all the way up to the Chart House Restaurant and back down again. It threatened to rain all afternoon but didn't during my run. I got to the restaurant in about 32 minutes, and made it back down in about 30. Per Google Earth, that distance is just a hair under 3 miles, so that's a good pace for as steep as it is!

Billie Joe and the boys were my musical companion.

Next year I'll do the 10K... next year. Maybe Max will run the 10K with me next year! • 5:02 PM 0 comments

Over a week ago, the thought occurred to me that I was angry. About a lot of different things. Personal things, professional things, political things, even some things that didn't fit into a category that started with the letter "P". I figured I could turn that idea into a post. The post was going to be a listing of all the things lately that make me angry.

I even started working on this post. As the list lengthened, I decided that, since I was going to be posting this publicly, where in theory some of the people and institutions mentioned on the list might see it, I should try to make it more effective. I decided that I was going to add, to each item, what would have to happen in order for me to not be angry about that item anymore.

Constructive, see? Honest and direct. "Hey, buddy, if you would just do this one thing, I could stop being angry and we'd both be better people."

It was a beautiful dream. I was finally laying it out there for anyone to see. Baring my soul and hopefully shaming some folk into shaping up.

At least, it felt honest...

But I had, in the back of my mind, some reservations about posting this "Anger Wish List".

As a side note, let me say that, a lot of times, anger is funny. Think about the funniest comedians; they're all angry, angry people. Some may display a cool, collected exterior, like Jerry Seinfeld or vintage Chevy Chase. But for most of them, the anger is like a raw, exposed nerve: Sam Kinison (damn, I miss Sam); John Belushi; Rodney Dangerfield (I'm just listing my favorites here so it might just be my perception). Even Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler, with two completely different approaches to their humor, share that bedrock of anger that makes them, well, damned funny. And, apparently, when I get "rant-y", especially about something that I find very serious, like governmental abuse of power, my friends' reactions are often to... laugh. Which sometimes makes me angrier (and therefore, funnier), and sometimes I see the humor and the spell is broken.

And that connection between anger and laughter started to shine through the items in my list. Or maybe it clouded over it. I'm not sure. But at a certain point, I started seeing the list in a whole different way.

For one thing, I started to wonder if my goal in writing the list and trying to shame people into making me not be angry anymore wasn't, well, funny. Would that even work? Would I be able to feel my internal upset-O-meter read lower and lower levels of angrions until I was at peace with the universe, as I checked items off the list? "OK, she apologized for the lies... great, that makes me 15.3% less angry!"

For another... well, I was putting a lot of power into other peoples hands. Power over me, and my thoughts and feelings. And, considering that these people have pissed me off and therefore make them almost be definition my enemies, means that they are probably not going to treat all this power as a great responsibility, to be approached with caution and respect, now, are they? No, more than likely, at least some of them are going to start yanking on that anger lever even more, trying to see if they can jack up my anger levels until I literally explode... or, worse, trying to see if they can sustain the anger levels at a high point, just below where I would burst, trying to prolong the process...

OK, maybe not. That could just be my anger and paranoia talking. But, honestly, to a certain extent, it's true: I was ceding control of my happiness to people I don't particularly like.

After pondering this for several days, I knew I needed a fresh approach to this list. I think the initial impulse was good: to try to figure out what I was so angry about, to put it all into one place, to ponder it all and see if there was a pattern, and to give it all a name.

But the other parts, pushing the solutions off to anyone else but me, and to make it all public? Not the right choice.

I asked myself, "Self, why are you angry about [X]? What was it that made you angry? Was it a failure on their part? Or was there some expectation you had that wasn't met? Where did all this freakin' anger come from, anyway? Could there be an upside to anger? Is anger automatically negative, or is it neutral or even positive? Does it depend on the circumstances? Which parts do I control and which parts are out of my control?"

Yeah, I had a lot of questions.

I don't have a lot of answers yet, but this is the place to which I've arrived: Anger is the flip side of passion. If I'm angry about something, it's because I care about something that doesn't seem to be going well, or started out going well but took an unexpected turn, or I just thought it was going well but I was really fooling myself. Or maybe all of the above, or parts of the above, or none of the above. I. Don't. Know.

What I do know is that for every angry-making-thing on my list, there is or was a corresponding passion. And instead of blaming the event, person, institution or thing for betraying my passion, I'm going to try to re-connect to that original passion, to figure out why I felt that way, and if it was reasonable for me to feel that way, and if it's reasonable to now modify my expectations to bring back that passion.

Doesn't mean that the passion is still going to be attached to the same person, event, institution or thing, mind you. What is past will remain in the past. But the qualities or ideas that I recognized at the time, and became enamored of, may now continue to bring a smile to my lips and a light in my eyes, instead of a grimace and a dull angry glint.

I'm going to work to convert my anger into a positive force again. I'm going to use the emotion as a signpost that says, "You're feeling this way because, dammit, you LOVE TOO MUCH." Like seeing pain as a positive signal for change, I'm going to try to use my anger in the same way.

...I just hope that I remain funny in the process. • 4:55 PM 2 comments

Congratulations

to Ken and Merry and Aleyna

and the newest member of the family...

DEX!

...I hope Ken doesn't mind that I stole his picture. But it links to his Flickr pics, so he shouldn't. • 7:39 PM 2 comments

I may have mentioned this before, but I've been dieting in addition to my every-other-day run. My dieting plan is quite simple - I'm cutting back on total calories per day. I owe the basic concept to John Walker, author of the online book "The Hacker's Diet". Much more detail than I give below can be found in Mr. Walker's book.

I've been playing with the allowance since early February and have settled on keeping it under 2000 calories per day. That (combined with the running) seems to result in about a 1.5 lb loss per week, a nice, steady, healthy weight loss.

The other part of my diet is that I weigh myself every single morning, as soon as I wake up (but after going to the bathroom). I do this in spite of the advice of almost every diet book out there. "If you weigh yourself daily you'll just discourage yourself with all the daily fluctuations" seems to be the message.

However, I have a secret weapon that I use to obliterate any emotional reaction to the daily fluctuations. I have "rationality". Scary, huh?

Instead of focusing on the daily number, I focus on a moving average of the daily numbers. Since my actual weight isn't a constant from day to day even if I'm not dieting, and isn't constant throughout the day depending on how much water and food I've recently eaten (or, ahem, gotten rid of) I have to extract the trend of the overall number, rather than the actual number itself.

By standardizing on a time of day, I control a lot of the other variables that influence weight - people are typically lightest (also tallest but that's not important here) right out of bed, so it's closer to the true weight of the stuff that doesn't (normally) change. And if the number bounces up a bit one day, I can rely on the fact that as long as I cut calories consistently, my actual weight will go down over time.

The best part is (and the thought that triggered this post) that even when my weight bounces up, as it did this morning by a half-pound, if I compare the average of the past 7 days with the average of the immediately preceding past seven days, the average has gone down. That's the beauty of a moving average. (If I was really technical I could write an exponentially-weighted moving average, but I'm not, and this is good enough for my purposes.) For instance, here are the averages for the past week:

• 196.0
  
• 196.4
  
• 196.1
  
• 195.9
  
• 195.7
  
• 195.3
  
• 195.0

Even though there seemed to be a bounce up on that third day (from 196.0 to 196.4) the overall trend is downward, and in the course of seven days my average loss is 1.0 lb, lower than I'd hoped but still a loss. To give you and idea of the numbers, the high point in that week was 196.0, which appeared twice, once at the beginning and once in the middle, up from a low of 194.5, which would have been frustrating if I hadn't been tracking the average. It would have seemingly wiped out any gain I'd made up to that point. By focusing on the trend, and not the daily input, however, I know that it's working. • 6:26 AM 1 comments

I ran last night after work, in my new shoes, and it felt great! It's so funny how much difference new shoes make. I don't realize, over the course of 6 months, how much cushioning and flexibility a running shoe loses. Plus I'm not convinced that the Asics are the right shoe for me. They never fit as well as the Brooks do - I had fit problems with the Asics from the beginning but just endured it. Shouldn't have done that - my feet were signaling something important.

I have half a mind to call Emily at Fit Right NW and thank her!

Anyway, grabbed some dinner, then caught a bus home. Then Christi called with a favor to ask, and Tracy called, and Smacky demanded some attention and food (equal parts of both). I gave some time to my friends (I include Smacky in that category) and then I took some "me" time.

I sat down to play with my new keyboard.

No... the musical keyboard. The one I bought for my 3-year-old New Year's resolution? Yeah, that one.

And, I finally got to the good part of my music theory book.

I was learning scales. And it's so cool.

I always knew, in a general way, that music had a mathematical underpinning. And way back in grade school and junior high, I took some music theory classes, but for whatever reason, the whole idea didn't gel in my head. And 15 years ago or so, I tried to learn harmonica, since it seems to be the easiest instrument to learn, but again, I was just memorizing what I was being taught. I couldn't break out of that to see the basic idea that would allow me to create new songs.

Either the book I'm reading now is written by a brilliant teacher, or I'm finally ready to learn, or some combination of the two, because last night was an epiphany.

I learned about how notes are just vibrations (yeah, I knew that already) and how vibrations that are exactly double or half of each other sound alike (didn't know that) - so that a note that's, say 100 vibrations per minute has a similar sound to one that's 200 vbm and one that's 50 vbm.

That explained how people have broken up the notes in-between those similar sounds into discrete, evenly-spaced notes - the familar C-D-E-F-G-A-B scale.

It gets a little more complicated with flats and sharps (the black keys on a piano) but that's just for convenience and language - the basic idea is that each key is the same "distance" from the keys next to it. So there are twelve steps from one C note to another C - that's the chromatic scale.

The part that made me sit up and go "wow" is that each type of music only uses a few notes out of those twelve, usually 5 or 7 of them. And if you restrict yourself to those notes, you can improvise that type of music. There's the major scale and a minor one, that's the basis for most Western or European music, there's a scale for Blues, there's the pentatonic scale that's the basis of Country and Western music. And rock is either based on the Blues scale or the C&W scale - the difference there is the chords and the beat.

This is probably over-simplified for any musicians out there, and might not be interesting to any non-musicians. Sorry 'bout that.

But man I was having fun last night, recording a simple chord (which is three or four specific notes in a scale played together) and drumbeat in GarageBand and picking out random notes in a specific scale and being amazed at how much like an actual song it sounded like!

Holy freakin' cow! I'm a musician!

I know, I know, I have a long way to go before I could play anything live. But now that the essential concept has taken root in my head, it's like I have a brand-new brain. I've been given a new way to look at the world, a new sense to complement the traditional twelve. I'm hearing songs on my iPod as if for the first time!

I don't know why it took me so long to get this. I'm just glad I did. • 10:34 AM 3 comments

Oh, man, this New Yorker piece totally skewers Bill O'Reilly.

In the book, O’Reilly goes on, "No one ever told me or my sister that we were pretty far down the social totem pole while we were growing up in 1960s America. We took for granted that it was normal to buy cars only when they were secondhand, that every family clipped coupons to save money, and that luncheon meats were the special of the day." And so on: "When our family went out to eat, a rare treat, we didn’t waste money on appetizers, if only because we didn’t go to the kind of restaurants that offered appetizers. Typically the pasta dish was spaghetti, and that was it. No linguine, fettuccine, rigatoni, etceterini, etceterini, to confuse the issue."

I never saw Nassau County, Long Island, where O’Reilly, who is fifty-six, grew up, in the nineteen-sixties, but I’m guessing that restaurants so unpretentious that they wouldn’t serve a soup-of-the-day didn’t actually exist. Still, the idea of such a restaurant captures O’Reilly’s idea of himself. As soon as he left home—to go to Marist College, in Poughkeepsie, New York—O’Reilly had occasional encounters with members of the fortunate classes, in which, inevitably, he was put down. At Marist, he longed for the girls from nearby Vassar, but "the Ivy Leaguers up from Princeton or down from Cornell got the dates; we were treated like hired help." By O’Reilly’s account, wealth and fame have not changed the pattern. Even now, when he wanders within range of the "swells," which he does surprisingly often for a guy who despises them, they sneer at him, just as they would sneer at any ordinary American.

• 6:48 AM 0 comments

I was downtown today.

First I noticed the cops. Everywhere.

I noticed the "No Parking" signs along Broadway.

I went about my business and then, when the drums and the chants started, I remembered.

Iraq War protest today. Three years.

I agreed with the protesters, but wondered if protest marches are really very effective.

I snapped a couple of pictures.

Then I got on the bus to head home.

Delays. Streets blocked off by cops and marchers with signs and drums and chants.

And, during the delays... whining from the passengers and bus driver.

Honking horns from the other drivers.

The march went on and on, and circled around and then came around again. Blocking traffic. Because they went in a circle it made them seem infinite, never-ending.

I was comfortable, I was inside, I was sitting down. It was Sunday. And the marchers made me think about why they were there: men and women, American and Iraqi and Afghanistani and others are all dying somewhere in the world. Because of lies. Because of a Republican power grab. Our leaders claim to make us "safer" but I don't feel safer.

Who are the black-body-armored, mirrored-visaged police protecting? The protesters? The bystanders? Or all the pretty corporate-owned buildings? Who feels safer when unarmed citizens are voicing their concerns while armed nervous men stand around and uninvolved citizens are only seeing their own selfish delays?

An old bearded man on the bus, in well-worn faded jeans and a denim jacket and a jaunty leather hat, made a comment every time he heard a horn honk - "Oh, now they're getting nasty." The bus driver agreed with him. They both complained, noisily, for the cops to "do their job" and let everyone through.

They didn't think about why there was a protest. They only thought of themselves, being inconvenienced, being impeded.

A middle-aged lady in front of me kept calling people, apologizing for being late, explaining it was the protest that made her late.

A lady behind me snapped pictures with her camera phone, sent them to others, called them and explained.

Two white vans with riot cops looking like giant black beetles clinging to their sides drove past us, lights strobing hypnotically.

A girl in her early 30s, frustrated, carrying shopping bags, asked the driver to let her off. She was tired of waiting and wanted to move. Another passenger joined her in leaving.

Frustrating for me to see them so blithely unconcerned about the reason for the protest. It seemed that they were confirming my earlier thought - the protest does not awaken any consciousness of the ongoing deaths and destruction. It only irritates people, people who take it out on the protesters, of all people.

Old man with the beard said, "That's what those cops are doing there. They're afraid someone's going to start a riot."

I had to speak up. "You mean we're afraid the cops are going to start a riot." My voice was raw and low and shaking. I don't normally speak up. I had to force the words from my head down into my lungs and out again, push them up beyond my normal soft-spoken-ness in order to be heard. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to make these impatient unseeing people think.

"No," the man said, "those protesters might riot."

"Right," I said, again forcing the words out, "all those unarmed people might cause some damage to those armored police." Sarcasm: "Scary."

The old man with a beard turned back to the bus driver, the one in agreement with him, the man who felt his impatience and didn't think beyond their own little world. "Why won't those cops do their job? Let some people through?"

Again, as loudly as I could manage, I spoke up. "Yeah, it's really tough to have to sit for 15 or 20 minutes... while men and women are dying in Iraq and Afghanistan."

At that moment, I had everyone's attention. There was a pause. I felt the people in front of me and behind me shift, uncomfortably in their seats. The old man had turned to watch me, his eyes guarded behind his glasses and shaded by his hat.

Then, as if they were all one person, I felt them all ignore me. They tuned me out. They didn't want to think about the reason those people were holding up traffic. They didn't want to think about some far away land and our sons and daughters and foreigners alike, dying daily from bombs and bullets.

Rather than think about that, they simply... erased me in their heads. I could feel myself become invisible.

The old man commiserated with the bus driver, but this time, he tossed in something he thought would absolve him of his selfishness, something he had not mentioned up to that point. He said it to the bus driver but I'm sure it was meant for my ears, because he said it sadly and softly, not proud. "Y'know, I served in Vietnam, and it messed me up good, but..." His voice trailed off. He was unable to complete the thought, because thinking it would remind him of the people in the far-off lands dying and killing.

Until he could get back to what was important, his plaintive whine: "Why don't those cops do their jobs?" • 5:19 PM 0 comments

This post is not about running.

Not technically.

It's about running shoes.

My Asics are about 6 months old, and since it's basically the start of the running season I decided it's time for new shoes. Since I had such a good experience at Fit Right NW, and since I have a 10% off coupon that I picked up at the Shamrock Run last weekend, I headed to NW Portland.

Last time, I bought the afore-mentioned Asics GT-2100s and a pair of Adidas Supernovas. I had been alternating between the two, but never felt fully comfortable in the Adidas. Since the beginning of the year I've only run in the Asics.

Since the last time I was there, Fit Right has added a treadmill and video camera, to record my actual stride. Another nice touch. I had to wait a bit for someone to help me but that was OK, I wasn't in a hurry. Before I knew it, Emily had me take off my shoes and socks and got me running on the treadmill. She pointed out my slightly-toes-out strike, my push-off at the end, and said it was a completely normal type of pronation. She recommended a general motion-control shoe. A shoe made for more stability might over-correct and cause problems.

Of that type of shoe... well, I had a choice between the Asics update, the GT-2110, or the Brooks Adrenaline GT6. Yeah, the same shoe I had gone looking for last time and couldn't find.

I tried both of them, but felt more comfortable in the Brooks. It kinda felt good to be back in them, actually (I'm such a brand loyalist). The Asics slipped on my heels a bit.



I also planned on picking up some trail shoes and some shoes for speedwork and racing. Unfortunately, Emily told me that they did not have the Brooks Adrenaline ASR trail versions of the Adrenaline GT6. I'll have to order those online or find them somewhere else.

But for speed... since I have a wide foot (at least for running shoes), Emily suggested a pair of running flats. As I told her, I'm not exactly Olympic material, but I wanted a lighter shoe mainly as a psychological aid. Something to put me in the mental mood for running fast.

She brought out a pair of Filas and a pair of Mizunos. She said that those were the ones she had that had the width I needed. I said I would only be wearing these for speedwork once a week at most, and at races. She warned me that they would feel very different from training shoes. "Lots less support. You will feel the ground through these." She said that I should try them out on shorter runs first in order to get used to them, since they would not be supporting my feet as well.

Both shoes felt much much lighter and far more responsive than my Brooks, but the Mizunos were less comfortable in the toes. Emily pointed out that the Mizunos actually seemed to fit my upper foot better, but I decided to go with the Filas.

And they're so... freaking... yellow!



Today was such a beautiful day in Portland. Warm-ish, sunny, blue sky. I wandered around NW Portland for a while after buying my shoes (and a new Brooks short-sleeved running shirt that was on sale). If I hadn't run for an hour yesterday I would have gone home and gone for a run today.

Um... I still might. Actually. • 2:58 PM 0 comments

This morning I ate the best blueberry pancakes I've ever had.

So light and fluffy, it was almost a shame to put butter on it - I was tearing them up even as the butter softened and melted over them.

The only downside is that they were gone so fast.

In fact, the entire menu at this place looked amazing, I had a difficult time choosing one item. So I'll just have to go back and try everything on the menu, one meal at a time.

And, no, I'm not telling you where they were. I don't want anyone else to know. The owner will be mad but that's how it has to be.

If you really really want to know, use contact form, ask me nicely privately, and swear to keep a secret. • 11:02 AM 0 comments

Here's something a little odd. Since I'm counting calories, I have a small anxiety about going to someplace "new" for lunch because I want to know how many calories I'm consuming, preferably in advance. If I don't know in advance, then I try to order "simple" things that are easy to estimate calories.

And, after eating someplace new, I have a bit of anxiety (just a touch, nothing to see a psychologist about) until I do finally figure out what I just ate. Can't really eat anything else until I know where I stand.

So, that being said, I still wanted to try this place downtown called Chipotle for lunch today, even though I didn't know the calorie count for my meal. I figured it would be easy enough to guess. But, I was meeting a friend and it was between where we worked, so it was a good choice.

When I got back to my desk, I realized that Chipotle's is a chain. And often, chains have nutritional information posted on one or more of the internets. So I googled it.

And as it turns out, there are fan sites that let you calculate the calories and other nutritional information for their food (this is the one I used). But the main site does not post nutritional information at all.

Funny... Who has ever heard of a fan site for a restaurant chain? • 4:16 PM 1 comments

Don't worry, Windows users.

Now there's Freecell for Mac OS X.

Which means there's now no good reason to put off switching. Unless you enjoy using an operating system that shrivels your soul. • 12:53 PM 0 comments

Standing in the lobby of my building, delicious soy chai and cinnamon scone in hand, waiting for the elevator. Barely awake.

Elevator arrives, I step on, and swipe my badge (it's a secure building) and press my floor button... and a cute blonde woman in a sharp gray pinstripe jacket and skirt walks in the front door, her high heels tap-tapping on the tile floor, her hair bouncing around her cheeks.

The elevator is closing so I stab at the "Door close" button - oops, not thinking - I fumble for the "Door open" button and, just as the doors close they reverse themselves and open again.

The blonde notices and smiles and steps on. "Thank you!" she says brightly.

"No problem," I say. "Just bein' friendly."

"Well, it's such a long ride to the top," she purrs, "I hate to miss the bus."

"Funny, I don't see you as a bus rider," I say. "I figure taxis and limos are more your speed." And as I say this, she swipes her badge and punches for the top floor.

She swipes her Qwest badge.

And punches the button for the Qwest Executives' floor.

She laughs, although, now, to me, her breath smells faintly of dead babies. "Take a taxi to work? That would be expensive!"

My blood feud with Qwest is amply documented elsewhere on these internets. A battle that I had, in fact, won but has left such a bitter taste in my mouth that I have sworn never to even acknowledge their existence.

Imagine my discomfort at being forced to work in a building that my employer shares with Qwest. And not just run-of-the-mill Qwest employees, poor damned souls, no; there are Qwest executives on the two floors directly above me. How they must have schemed and plotted after their defeat at my noble hands to gain the ultimate position of superiority over me. However, my purity is not tainted by their soiled presence in the belfry of my office building. No. My honor is enhanced that they would continue to poke at me from such a perch.

Until this day, however, I had not had to interact with one of them. And, in my moment of weakness prior to partaking of all that is good and soy and chai and cinnamon-y, I actually conversed on a friendly, almost flirt-y, level.

I hoped that my sudden disapproval didn't show too baldly on my face; I just wanted to avoid any further contamination. "Right, spendy," I murmurred, "money, heh. Right." I then courteously studied the display of floor numbers, willing my floor to arrive as quickly as possible.

"Have a nice day!" she taunted me as I stepped off.

Wow. I feel... dirty. I need a shower. • 7:04 AM 1 comments

For dinner tonight, I felt like getting something new. There's a spot near my grocery store, Philladelphia's, that sells sandwiches and microbrew. I'd tried them in the past a few times, because whenever I walk past it, it smells great. However, every time I've actually eaten there, I'd come away mildly disappointed in the sandwiches - too expensive for the blah food.

They had recently added free wifi as an option and that gave me incentive to try them one more time.

Again, the food was blah and spendy. I'll never learn to stop thinking with my senses.

While I was there, I pulled out my new sexy thing and poked around. Their access point requires a password that's cleverly hidden so that only customers can see it, not folks sitting outside or walking past, and it looks like they change it from time to time. They're using WEP encryption which is almost worse than not having encryption at all, considering how easily the encryption can be brute-forced and broken, but I'll give them an "E" for effort.

After a bit another, older balder gentleman came in and opened up his Dell laptop. After poking around and showing increasing signs of frustration, he asked one of the employees for help. I didn't hear the conversation but the employee looked helpless and subservient and the bald guy looked like... well, like a pointy-haired boss who didn't understand what he was doing but was damned if he was going to back down.

After seeing the hapless employee, a twenty-something, tall and skinny and dark-haired, finally shrug, the bald PHB (not a contradiction in terms) said, annoyed, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, "Well, you should find out because I imagine you're going to get this question a lot!"

Jerk.

The twenty-something guy (he wasn't a waiter, and wasn't a cook... cashier, basically) saw that I had a computer out, too, and stepped over. "You're online right now, right?" he asked me hopefully.

"Yes," I said, finally paying them some non-hidden attention.

"Where do you put in the password to get connected?" he asked, stepping around to see my screen.

Damn. Where was my "No, I will not fix your computer" t-shirt? At home in the laundry. I could empathize with the poor kid, but the PHB was being obnoxious about the cost-free wifi. I didn't feel like rewarding the PHB for his rudeness. So, even though I knew very well how to connect a Windows PC to a wireless network, I feigned ignorance.

"Sorry," I said, pointing at my beautiful bright wide-screened sexy laptop with it's lick-able interface, "I'm using a Mac. It just... works."

"Oh," the kid said, knowingly but disappointed at the lack of assistance, "yeah... it just... finds the network, huh?"

"Yeah," I said brightly. "Sorry!"

The kid shuffled back over to the PHB. "Well... let's try this again..."

I feel a bit guilty but dammit, I'm not tech support for the world. There's a reason I get paid a lot to work on Windows but choose to use a Mac for personal use.

They did, eventually, figure it out, which made me feel better for the kid but I didn't like the smugness of old-and-baldy. Oh, well, not my gig. • 9:48 PM 0 comments

Mmmmm...

My favorite breakfast:

1. Grande soy no-water, no-foam Tazo chai.
   
2. Cinnamon roll
   
3. Flirting with Sara[h] the redheaded Starbucks barista

Man, if cinnamon was a girl, she'd be a redhead. • 6:46 AM 0 comments

Note to self:

Keep telling women:

"If you're nice to me, I'll let you play with my iPod."

'Cause it seems to work. Just sayin'. • 9:04 PM 2 comments

Now that I've got my MacBook Pro, I've added all the pictures in my gallery to iPhoto, and installed FlickrExport, a plug-in that allows me to send pictures straight from iPhoto to Flickr.

I have, in fact, just added a few pictures from a "ghost tour" of the Portland Underground I took with my sister and her family in December '02.

The Portland Underground is the name for all the tunnels and rooms below street level that were used in the late 1800s for smuggling and slavery, including impressing hapless drunks and loners into serving as ships' crews. It was a fun tour, although the emphasis on "ghosts" during the tour seemed a little overdone...

I'll be adding more pictures later... now that's it's easy-peasy. • 2:10 PM 0 comments

It's March, for crying out loud. What's with this snow?

Smacky was outside last night. Around midnight he was anxious to get back inside. It was funny 'cause it seemed like he was giving me hell for all the cold, wet, white stuff outside.

He thinks he's in charge of making me laugh and bugs, and I'm in charge of everything else. That includes weather. Obviously I've fallen behind in my duties. • 6:33 AM 2 comments

Oh, sure, I see how it is.

I stop writing about my exercising, and Dooce goes and blathers on and on about her and her husband and an elliptical trainer and farting and a chatty gay exercise nut she used to know.

Web 2.0 is so unfair.

Is that what I have to do? Do I have to write about farting while exercising?

I'm running tonight. After my dentist appointment. And, yes, I might even fart. • 12:51 PM 1 comments

Man, is it just me, or is this place looking a little... tired lately?

Someone should do something about that. • 6:53 AM 1 comments

Is it just me or has there been a rash of Windows-to-Mac switching going on lately?

On a personal level, one friend switched last fall, plunking down the cash for the last PPC iMac (he's not bitter at all that his machine was obsoleted in just a couple of months - he'd hoped for at least a half-year before that happened but it was not to be). Another friend is considering purchasing a shiny new MacBook Pro to go along with his career change from government functionary to graphic artist extraordinaire.

Then comes word of a more momentous change: Gabe and Tycho, a.k.a. Mike and Jerry of Penny Arcade, hard-core PC and console gamers, have in the last week purchased their first-ever Mac OS systems, soothed in their decision by the presence of a familiar piece of hardware inside: Intel.

Jerry's musings on the topic of switching are well worth reading.

Then, prominent political blogger Josh Marshall, of Talking Points Memo, after manfully not complaining bitterly about problems with a Gateway computer, and the company's support (or lack thereof), initially resisted the siren call of the Mac loyalists but eventually succumbed and appears to be quite happy with his decision.

Even professional attention whore (I mean that in the nicest way, I swear; after all, look what I'm doing right now, only I'm not getting paid for it - pity me!) Heather Armstrong at Dooce found and linked to a post from someone who fought against the mental image she had of a Mac user... and only gave in when she realized that defying the stereotype would be satisfying. Y'know, as opposed to just realizing that the stereotype was incorrect...

And John Gruber at Daring Fireball, after reading about Josh Marshall's initial resistance to conversion, had some interesting thoughts on the topic, pertaining to why folks might resist switching when, in all likelihood, they would benefit hugely. Somehow, because of the wide choice of commodity hardware, using Windows on top of that cheap hardware is seen as a more cosmopolitan platform? Crazy talk, to me.

Mr. Gruber is a confirmed Mac user, and by his own admission to me in email, never uses any other platform but isn't evangelical about the platform - unlike someone like, say, me, who is forced to support Windows at work and retreats to the comfort of the Mac OS at home.

So what's with all the switching lately? My first thought is that it's because Macs now have Intel inside and that makes them somehow less exotic. But maybe this is a longer-building trend that is only now reaching the point where I start to notice. I had a ex-girlfriend who purchased an iMac two years ago after her home was broken into and her H-P PC was stolen. And my father switched quite happily almost 10 years ago when he became more involved in photography as a hobby. And, of course, my friend mentioned above switched prior to the PPC-to-Intel change-over (and he's not bitter about the timing of that at all).

I'd like to think it was because of my powers of pursuasion... I'd like to think that... • 6:46 AM 0 comments

What's almost as good as having a missed connection of my own?

Watching one happen for two other people right in front of me.

This morning, gray, cold, damp but not raining. Pioneer Place Mall, outside Saks. Small group of 4 men and women, apparently employees, waiting by the employee entrance on the sidewalk.

From across the street, a Latina, mid-30s, black slacks, bosomy, about 5'7" but wearing heels, comes running in that odd gait women in heels use. Her gray long coat flying behind her. She has keys (apparently the store keys) in her hand. She's smiling. A store manager?

Walking towards me, a black man, over 6', thin but athletically graceful, wearing a sharp gray suit and black woolen overcoat, a stocking cap on his shaved or bald head. His mouth open in amazement around his trimmed goatee as he watches the bosomy Latina running. The woman does not see the black man in the suit - her eyes are focused on her staff or co-workers.

The woman reaches the door and starts to unlock it, as the tall man in the suit, still gaping with amazement at the woman, literally plows into one of the other employees, completely oblivious to anything but the bosomy woman.

I walk past, smiling to myself, as the man in the suit and stocking cap apologizes to the Saks employee and the bosomy woman lets the rest of her staff into the store, ignoring the man she has so stunned with her appearance that he's stumbled into one of her employees.

Was there a connection? I'm betting the man wished there was... • 6:52 AM 1 comments

I saw "Ultraviolet" over the weekend.

One word review: dumb.

Longer rant-y review:

Take it from me, I'm a guy who loves all kinds of movies. No matter how bad, I can always find something good to say about it. Like, say "Howard the Duck" - oh, wait, I was out of town the week that was actually in the theaters. I never actually saw it. I swear.

And then there are movies that are so bad, they become fun again. An example would be, oh, just about any movie that Joel and the 'bots were forced to watch on "Mystery Science Theater 3000". Man, I miss those guys. (Sure, Mike was OK - but Joel was the bestest).

So where does that leave the vampire - oh, excuse me, "hemophage" - story of "Ultraviolet"?

Well... it had Mila Jovovich in it. And she was naked, once, briefly.

Unfortunately, even if Ms. Jovovich were naked for the entire running length of the movie it would not redeem this stupid movie.

Get this for stupid: The opening scene has Ms. Jovovich's character posing as a courier picking up a very special package. The guards and defenses give her every test imaginiable to check if she is human or "hemophage" - ID and papers checked, DNA scans, blood scans, retinal scans, chemical baths, everything, all 100% unadulterated techno-babble-filled dialogue showing that these guys mean business and do not take their duties lightly. She passes test after test after test... when it's obvious to everyone in the theater that she is, in fact, a "hemophage".

But, uh, do they ever look at her teeth? You know.. the fangs in her mouth? Wouldn't that be a big tip-off? Apparently not.

And, of course, they have to come up with some techno-babble reason for just why she then turns out to be, to the surprise of no one in the theater, one 'a them there "hemophages". Argh. Much better to have simply had her blast her way inside.

There's so much to pick apart in this movie that it might, actually, be fun with the right group of 'bots - er, I mean, people. Booze might help, too. But don't waste your money on it in the theater, it'll be in the DVD bargain bins soon enough. • 6:31 AM 2 comments

Just a quick note:

The Luxor trip was not the same trip to Vegas that I began describing in my post about the White Pines Motel.

I thought that might be obvious from the fact that I drove to Vegas in the White Pines trip, but flew to Vegas in the Luxor trip. But apparently not clear enough. They were separate trips. • 12:38 PM 0 comments

Alas, my Creative Week has ended, but not without having an effect. I've now come up with at least one new theme that I can mine for stories and posts forever - the one (obviously) involving hotels and motels.

Lotta stories involve hotels and motels.

At any rate, I've seen the light. I'm going to log my running stuff elsewhere and keep the focus of my blog on more creative posts.

I might even try to write some poetry. I promise it will be better than the Vogons' poetry, though. • 6:29 AM 2 comments

Motels and hotels I remember

Fourth in a series.

Luxor in Las Vegas, Nevada

Man, oh, man, I want to post about my stay at the Luxor. But, damn, considering the length of previous entries in this series, my story about the Luxor would fill an entire novel.

I'll just leave you with these two conversational snippets to try to encapsulate the whole experience, one from the first night, and one from the plane ride back.

Part the first:

The hotel room is completely dark. The room is silent except for the rattle of the air-conditioner. Then:

Me: Promise you won't try to kill me in the middle of the night?
Her: [Icy silence, then] I'm not going to kill you tonight.
Me: [laughs] I want to find out how this story ends.
Her: [incredulous] You mean you can't already tell?
Me: No! I can't wait to find out!

Part the second:

She and I are settled in our seats, both reading different biographies of Philip K. Dick

Me: [more than slightly buzzed, I set down my book] C'mon, admit it, we had a great time.
Her: [considers this] It did turn out... better than I expected. After that first night...
Me: We're passionate people!
Her: Are you crazy? Do you remember? We wanted to keeeeel each other [she makes a stabbing motion]
Me: But we got over it!

Someday, man... someday... I'm going to write that novel.

Labels: motels

• 8:22 PM 0 comments

Motels and hotels I remember

Third in a series.

Hilton Portland in Portland, OR

Sometime in the late '80s...

How did I get here? I was sitting in a windowsill at night, with a cute curly-haired blonde girl I had just met a couple of days before, on the top floor of the Hilton. We could see up and down Broadway, the signs and traffics making a light show just for us. It was a romantic spot. We had had to evade security, and in fact could probably be tossed out if they discovered us. A little privacy, a little shared secret, an awesome view... a boy and a girl alone...

Her name was Christine, and she worked at Wunderland, a nickel arcade out in East county. I'd been there with my friends a few nights ago, and had flirted with Christine, and when we left, I had gone back inside to get her name and phone number. But the guy at the counter wouldn't let me back in, and wouldn't tell me her name, and so I'd left my number with him, figuring it was a lost cause.

Two nights later, she'd called me back. She'd been impressed that I had had the balls to try that, and wanted to talk to me. We talked, the next night I'd convinced my friends to go back to Wunderland, and while my friends dumped money into the machines I hung out with Christine. We stayed until closing time, and when we left, Christine came with us. She and I rode in the backseat of Andy's Trans Am, "The Flaming Chicken", and Matt and Andy in the front, back to Andy's house where my beater truck was parked.

Then, I and Christine drove around, and I remembered a secluded spot where we could... talk.

But Christine had a secret and a load of guilt. Once we were alone, she would not look at me, which even I, with my not-so-finely-honed social skills knew was a bad sign. I asked and asked and finally she told me:

"I have a boyfriend. We live together. He's probably wondering where I am right now."

Um, OK. Interesting. I guess she was just being spontaneous when she'd agreed to get in the car with three strange boys and not go home.

She told me more: how boring her boyfriend was, how he was only into comic books and didn't like to go out, how I'd seemed so fun and flirty and (I'm not kidding) how I had actual friends like Matt and Andy. And that was all it took to make me stand out from her stay-at-home comic-book-reading live-in-boyfriend and get her to come with us.

But that was the limit of her courage. She still wouldn't look me in the eyes. She wouldn't commit to seeing me again. She told me not to call her again, either at work or at home, because her co-workers knew her boyfriend and word would get back to him. I tried to talk her into meeting me again but even I could see that that wasn't going to happen.

So... right, right... that was how I got there.

So I took her home, and never heard from her again. Never saw her working at Wunderland again, either. Another unfinished story.

Labels: motels

• 3:30 PM 1 comments

Motels and hotels I remember

Second in a series.


White Pines Motel in Ely, Nevada

I wanted a solo road trip this time. It was late summer, 2000. It was the weekend that Burning Man was going on, out in the Nevada desert, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go to Burning Man. It might have been fun, it might not... mainly I didn't want to spend my whole weekend in one place. I wanted to be mobile.

I'd rented a car for the weekend, decided I'd just drive. South and west mostly because Portland is in the northwest corner of the US and there's so much that is, well, south and west of Portland.

A couple of weeks before, I'd read in the Oregonian Travel section about a hotel called "The Little A'Le'Inn" (get it? "Alien") in Nevada, near the famous Area 51. I couldn't remember the name of the town it was in at the time, but it sounded like a good goal. I decided, mentally and without any more research, that I would spend one night in the Little A'Le'Inn. I didn't save the article - all I remembered afterward was that the inn was located in a town in Nevada, near Area 51, in a town... um... with a woman's name... that starts with an "R".

So, fast forward to the Friday of my long weekend. Getting the rental car was a hassle in itself, as I did not have a credit card at the time and therefore Hertz wouldn't honor my reservation. Hertz referred me to Dollar, where the girl behind the counter was very pleasant until I casually mentioned, in passing, that I might take the car to see Hoover Dam. She balked at this and refused to rent the car to me. Apparently their contract and insurance doesn't cover me if I travelled beyond any state that borders Oregon. Hoover Dam is right on the Nevada/Arizona border, and this was enough to get this girl (I do not remember her name) to deny me a car.

I had to wait for the manager of the office to show up to approve the rental. The manager was quite confused as to why the girl wouldn't rent to me, as she took me at my word that I would honor the rules. I guess the girl was just abusing her petty power... Very frustrating.

At any rate, now I had the car, and once I stopped to get my luggage from home, I was on the road. I had an atlas, and at my first dinner stop, in Eugene, I pulled it out to locate my destination. I didn't see Area 51... but then, I didn't expect it to be listed in my atlas at all and didn't even bother looking for it. I checked the lists of town names, and settled on Ruth, Nevada.

Yeah. That sounded right. Woman's name, starts with an "R".

Ruth was very near the Nevada/Utah border, in the northeast corner of the state, and looked to be a tiny town. Perfect.

Google Maps shows that it's 814 miles from Portland to Ruth, but it shows a different route than I took. I drove south as far as Eugene, where I stopped to buy some CDs (had no music with me, since I wasn't really into music at the time but needed something to keep me awake), then cut over to Klamath Falls, and then took back roads to cross over into Nevada. Then south until I found highway 50, and that took me east. The drive itself wasn't that interesting; I remember seeing signs in K-Falls protesting the "theft" of water from there, and I remember using a porta-potty just after crossing into Nevada that was the only structure for miles and miles; I also remember driving across the flat desert towards a cliff wall that seemingly dominated the landscape for an hour or more, and then having to drive up the face of it, at right angles to my previous direction, before continuing on.

Night fell while I was still several hours from Ruth. The rocky, flat desert gave way to mountains on either side. I tried listening to the radio to see if I could get some local flavor but couldn't tune anything in. Clear night sky, stars like bright diamonds, rocky cliffs on either side of me, and utterly alone with no traffic in either direction; I could definitely see this as the location of an encounter with alien life. I told myself ghost stories in my head to set the mood.

Then I passed what looked like lights from a trailer park off to the right side of the highway. It was past me before I realized what the lights were, and then the highway curved down and around a left-curving corner...

And, passing into a valley formed by the cliffs on either side of me I was dazzled by the neon lights of casinos and hotels, all effectively hidden until the last moment by the mountains.

I had reached Ely, Nevada - which my atlas told me was the next town after Ruth. I must have missed it!

It was late, nearly 11 PM, so I drove slowly through town, looking for a motel to stay in. But almost every motel or hotel, large or small, showed "NO VACANCY". Maybe that had to do with the swarms of bikers on motorcycles, everywhere? It was like a Harley-Davidson convention or something. Black leather jackets with elaborate insignia were being worn by almost every human being I saw.

I passed through town and didn't find an open hotel. I knew if I went much further I'd end up in Utah. I briefly considered crossing over just to spite that girl at Dollar... but I was tired. Maybe tomorrow.

Resigned to sleeping in the car, I drove back through town to stop and get something to eat. I went into a convenience store, picked up some beef jerky and soda and water and chips (road trip food) and, when I walked back to my car, spotted the sign at the White Pines Motel across the street come on - it had been dark just moments before.

And the sign showed "VACANCY".

I sprinted across the street, dodging noisy motorcycles, and went into the office.

"Wow, you're our first customer," said a bathrobed, baseball-capped beard behind the counter.

"You have rooms tonight?" I asked.

"Yep." He started to get the paperwork. "Power just came back on. Been out, all up and down the street. This is not the weekend to miss any business!"

"Right," I said, "the motorcycles."

"Hell, it's Labor Day weekend! Pretty much make our nut for the whole year tonight!"

The motel was a semi-circle of maybe eight or ten one-story rooms, around a gravel driveway. A concrete fountain that had probably been purchased at a Wal-Mart somewhere was in the middle. The buildings had a Western motif, almost like a log cabin. I could see that maintence wasn't the highest priority, but since this was the only room in town, it beat sleeping in the car. I drove the car across the road and parked in front of my room.

The room was tiny, and panelled in fake wood, with a carpet whose color, even in bright sunlight, would still resist description; in the dim yellow light of the one lamp, it was no color at all. The sheets on the bed were about the same, but appeared to be clean, although the blankets had several burn marks from cigarette ashes. Home, sweet motel room. I wondered about the previous occupants and drifted off to sleep.

Next morning, I took the quickest shower I could (just armpits and a-hole) and wrote a quick note in my journal before checking out and finding breakfast at a nearby casino. I flirted with the waitress, a fellow Oregonian college student bound for the U of O in a week or two.

I thought about my plan to stay in the Little A'Le'Inn. I guess I'd missed my opportunity. I decided I'd drive back along Highway 50 to find Ruth, get some pictures, and then move on. Still had several days before I had to be back at work. I was bummed but not too bad; I was playing this all by ear, anyway.

After breakfast, I drove back west. I found a sign, pointing south, along a side road, that said "Ruth 0.5 mi." A half-mile from the highway, I found a... settlement. Just as I had thought from my brief impression last night, it was truly just a collection of trailers and mobile manufactured homes. Lots of large satellite dishes. One of the trailers looked like a store of some kind, and I needed directions, so I went in.

While getting a couple of bottles of water and some more jerky and Red Vines, I eavesdropped on the conversation between an older lady behind the counter, and two more older ladies and an older man on the customer side. Two of them had just come back from a vacation and were talking about it and showing pictures. The conversation was interrupted when I brought my purchases up.

"Say," I said, "I'm looking for Ruth."

One of the ladies, the one with the pictures, spoke up. "I'm Ruth."

Confused a moment, I tried again. "No... I'm looking for Ruth, Nevada." They all laughed (probably tell that joke to every tourist that comes through). "It's supposed to be near Area 51...?" I offered, helplessly.

Again, they all laughed. "Son," Ruth told me, "you're lost. You're at least 200 miles from Area 51!" She pulled out her pictures. "We just got back from there! Want to see?"

Stunned, I leafed through the pictures. One was of Ruth standing in front of a green traffic sign reading "The Extraterrestial Highway". Another was of Ruth standing in front of a white pre-fab building with a silver flying saucer on a pinacle above.

"That's the Little A'Le'Inn!" Ruth proclaimed. "I won fifty bucks there! Those slots are loose!"

"See... that's where I was trying to get to," I explained. "But I guess I got lost."

"It's in Rachel, Nevada," the store proprietor said.

"It's clear down south," Ruth said.

"That's about as lost as you can be, and still be in the state," the man said.

I groaned. "Oh... I see. All I could remember was the letter 'R'!" I laughed along with the rest of them.

I got directions from the group, and after arguing a bit, they agreed that the man's (wish I could remember his name; he was Ruth's boyfriend) directions were the best and easiest to follow. I headed back through Ely, and drove south, still trying to at least get a picture of this fabled motel...

But that's a story for another time.

Labels: motels

• 12:18 PM 1 comments

Creativity is under attack!

Andy "Waxy" Baio, of Waxy.org is fighting back, though. Waxy.org hosted "The House of Cosbys" video, but apparently Bill Cosby's lawyers don't like it and sent a cease-and-desist order to have it removed.

Andy Baio claims that the C&D is unfair, in that the video is clearly satire and larger, more commercial media outlets have been satirizing Bill Cosby withouth threat for years and years. He says:

"I'm not taking it down, and their legal bullying isn't going to work. They claim that hosting these videos "violates our client's rights of publicity as well as other statutory and common laws prohibiting the misappropriation of an individual's name, voice and likeness and unfair competition." Sorry, but the First Amendment protects satire and parody of a public figure as free speech."

Right on, Andy! Fight back! • 12:08 PM 0 comments

I forgot my sunglasses yesterday.

I remembered my sunglasses today.

Both of those were mistakes. • 12:03 PM 0 comments

I'm not sure that math is creative... but it's definitely out of my normal range of subjects, so...

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 10/10 correct!

• 6:49 AM 1 comments

Last Friday I went to Taco del Mar for lunch. It's quite a walk from my office and it was OK outside so I didn't mind. However, it was a bit cold, and the Taco del Mar I go to is tiny so I got it to go and brought it back to my building.

On my way back, I also stopped at the bank, which took me out of my way a little, also. I found myself approaching the building I work in by an unfamiliar angle.

I got to the corner of SW 2nd and Oak, where there's a parking lot, and rounded it. I spotted a short cute red-headed girl in a black biker's jacket and a short plaid skirt, messenger bag slung behind her, well-used bicycle propped against a street lamp, standing in front of a trailer. At second glance the trailer was serving food - Thai food, it looked like from the sign, which read "Thai Basil". A little old Asian lady was leaning out the trailers' tiny window, but she quickly disappeared back inside.

I still had my Taco del Mar bag and drink in hand. I started to walk past, but something nagged at me. "Say something!" the inner voice said, and, in the exception to the rule, I listened and obeyed the inner voice.

I turned back around, and smiled and asked the girl standing on the sidewalk, "Is this place any good?"

She smiled, "Oh, it's awesome! And so cheap. You get" she pointed at the menu "noodles, a spring roll, and a bottled water, all for five bucks!"

I was impressed. "Wow," I said, "That's a great deal!"

"I eat here all the time," she said.

I lifted my TDM bag, shrugged, and said, "I'll have to try it sometime." I pointed down the street. "My office is just down there. I'm pretty close."

She nodded and... waited...

"OK, thanks!" I said, and turned and walked away, back to my building.

Two blocks away, I was kicking myself. Hey, at least I said something but, damn, she was cute. I could have... um... I don't know. So close, so far away.

Once I'd finished my lunch, at my desk, I realized that what I had just experienced was a "Missing Connection". I love reading those ads that people put in the back of the Willy Week or The Mercury where they announce publically that they had an instant connection to someone... and blew it. So many stories behind all those ads... and now, I had had one of my own.

I didn't want to wait for the ad to show up in one of the weekly rags, though. But craigslist offers instant gratification.

So, I posted the following in the Missing Connections section of Portland's craigslist:

Beautiful Redheaded Bike Messenger Girl
Reply to: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-02-24, 3:09PM PST

To the Beautiful Redheaded Bike Messenger Girl:

I was observant enough to notice you - maybe it was the red hair, maybe it was the bright red plaid skirt. I was brave enough to circle back and at least ask you something, if only to confirm that you are, indeed, attractive. Even though I had my lunch already in hand, the only thing I could think of was to ask you about the Thai trailer you were waiting at.

Even though I didn't get your name or spend a little more time talking, I still walked away with something: a recommendation for awesome, cheap pad Thai, and a smile. Since I work in the area I'll be sure to give it a try.

...probably every single day until I see you again. Just sayin'.

If you'd like, email me back and we can share other good cheap food recommendations. Or just conversation.

Signed,

Almost-bald guy in brown leather coat, taking Taco del Mar lunch back to office.

* this is in or around SW 2nd and Oak

The ad has since been pulled so don't bother looking for it and replying.

I didn't expect an answer. And yet, I did. Or at least, I compulsively checked my email - friends who are reading this will understand that that means I checked my email even more often than usual - for a reply. The weekend came and went, and no reply.

Monday and Tuesday I ended up having other lunch plans, so I didn't make it back to the Thai trailer. But, today, my plans were fairly open. My friend Tracy was also working downtown, but she was pretty easily convinced to try this new place out. She was already aware of my story from Friday, and had seen the ad I'd placed.

Tracy met me at my office and we walked to the spot. I pointed out a spot where there were usually tons of bikes parked, and mentioned to Tracy that I wasn't sure if it was because lots of people in the building used bikes, or if it was an office for bike messengers. I wondered if the girl I had seen was actually a bike messenger, and if so, perhaps she worked here. If not, maybe she works in the area. Tracy could tell that I was eager to see this girl again and get a second chance.

And, in mid-sentence, I stopped. Stepping off the sidewalk and walking away from us, at right angles to our path (we were going east, she was going south)... was the girl.

"..and that's her," I said to Tracy.

She had her bike, and her Timbuktu messenger bag, but had on a different skirt and no hat... but it was her. She did not appear to notice us - but we were a half-block away.

"Damn," I said, "that's totally her. She does work in the area. Maybe she is a bike messenger!"

Tracy just watched her walk away, and looked at me expectantly. I didn't move. I couldn't.

"If that wasn't a perfect opportunity," Tracy said, "I don't know what is."

Tracy was right. I'll probably never see the BRHBMG again.

Turns out the pad Thai was pretty good. Kinda sweet and not too spicy (but I'd asked for medium just in case) and it's just as cheap and filling as the girl had suggested.

I'll probably get sick of Thai food for the next week, or so, though. • 4:09 PM 0 comments

I'm so confused by all the people I've talked to today who:

1. Celebrated Fat Tuesday last night;
   
2. ...but don't plan on celebrating Lent, starting today with Ash Wednesday.

Isn't the whole point of the first, to get it out of your system in preparation for the second? Doesn't it just turn Fat Tuesday into another meaningless excuse to drink and party and remove the context?

It's true: America really is the United States of Amnesia. We have no context or history beyond last week.

That's why I just drink and party when I want to. I don't need no stinkin' excuse. I may be an atheist but I have enough respect for others' cultures and beliefs not to sully them with a nod-and-a-wink-type "celebration".

This is my offical Creative Week rant.* Nobody said that Creative Week was going to be all happy-go-lucky.



* Unless I post another one. • 12:08 PM 1 comments