Homo Erectus!

As I write, Gorillaz are telling me all about windmills. I loves me some new music. While I was out last week for reprogramming, I got a call from a customer on a project we'd closed out many months ago. He says the inspector finally came through, and wouldn't finish the inspection because he found some missing items. That can't be, I told him. My installer is a pro, and knows what he's doing. But, through a commitment to customer service (and really no other way out), it was decided I was going back out into the field. On Monday, I booked a Tuesday morning flight to Washington, with a plan to drive to Cambridge for a meeting Tuesday afternoon with the customer, and the Big Meeting Wednesday morning with everyone. I arrived at our local International Airport with plenty of time for an 8:00 departure. Only, the flight was rescheduled for 11:30. That would make it hard to keep my 2:00 appointment. After a 2 hour wait in line, I was rebooked on Midwest to Milwaukee, then to Reagan National Airport. It didn't make sense to go west before going east, but hey, it would get me there almost on time. I was game, and happily trotted to my gate. I asked for a window seat, and got a snort from the gatelady as she told me 'They are all window and aisle seats.' We descended the stairs and it became apparent why the snort; I climbed aboard a Chrysler minivan with wings (ok, it wasn't a Chrysler, but a Raytheon Beech 1900D). I expected to see wood on the sides. As I stepped over the hump in the floor where the wing strut went through, I found my seat near the back. The seat in front of mine flopped over forward when I touched it. The back of the airplane featured a 3-wide bus bench up against a wall which was being thumped and rattled loudly by the baggage handlers. The windows were tinted smoky brown, and there was no PA system. The enormous young copilot shut the door and checked for daylight around the edges, then thanked us for flying and wished us luck. He said if anyone needed to communicate an emergency, we should come up and talk to him. I suddenly wished there was a bathroom on this plane. As we got to the runway, I was impressed by the massive amount of thrust generated by the twin propellers. I was pushed back into my wobbly seat with considerable force, and it made me forget the peeling paint on the engine cowl for a moment. We were aloft in no time, and crossed Lake Michigan as the crunchy center of a cloud sandwich. There was a fluffy layer of thick marshmallow clouds below, and wispy cotton stretched above. It was beautiful. I arrived in Wisconsin over mini icebergs in Lake Michigan and snowcovered residential neighborhoods. Milwaukee is Midwest's bustling hub, but one entire terminal seemed deserted. I wandered around while waiting for my next flight, and spotted something... icky. It reminded me of the scene in the Eddie Murphy movie Coming To America involving excessive hair product. The second leg of the trip was AWESOME. This time I boarded a brand-new-looking Boeing 717, and they proved the Midwest slogan, 'the best care in the air.' Not only were the flight attendants friendly and professional, but the seats - oh.my.goodness. They were ALL business class seats, leather upholstery, 2-2 configuration, wide enough for my fat ass AND some wiggle room. The lunches they served were delicious, and my friendly seat mate awoke me from a nap to let me know the cookies were coming. So what, you may ask? Well, let me tell you, if there's one way into my heart, it's via warm chocolate chip cookies, and more than one, thank you. They have earned a customer for life in me. Plus, the plane was on time, which is always something one hopes for. I arrived at Reagan National and got my Dodge Magnum station-wagon-with-attitude, and made the trip to the jobsite. It was a beautiful night, and I had time to take some decent pictures. Unfortunately, I did NOT have time for the meeting; the place was closed down by the time I showed up. The next morning, we met on site and began going through the inspector's concerns. Turns out his concerns were not only justified, but not hardly concerned enough. I found missing items and missed connections and enough things just plain wrong that if there was a heavy snow and a little wind, I would not be found inside that building. A long list was made and provided to my installer, and he set about making things right, which is good. That left me with a little time to kill before my flight out, so after returning the car and writing my report, I found myself at the Steven Udvar Hazy Center (silly name for an awesome airplane museum). It's on the Dulles Airport property, and features bunches of airplanes and flight artifacts. Boy and I spent an entire day in Washington DC a few years ago at the Smithsonian Air & Space museum, so this was right up my alley. It features all kinds of sweet airplanes, real adventurer stuff, and baby changing rooms. It's true. Also, it may have featured Oliver North. I walked all the way around him, but didn't ask if he was him because he was in conversation and that would have been rude. On the way out, I overheard one security guard saying to another, "Homo erectus! Homo erectus was found all over Asia, I tell you!" The hell? Is this what rent-a-cops normally discuss? Tell me, I don't know. The time came for me to sprint across 8 lanes of heavily-laden human traffic to my gate at the airport. I did so, arriving at my gate right on time (4:04) for a 4:14 flight. Only, um, wait. The display showed my flight leaving at 5:51. Which would wreck my connection in Detroit. I waited in line, which is what you do when you buy a Northwest ticket, moving at a rate of one passenger per 28 minutes. I started out #6 in line. #7, the nice lady behind me, missed a flight to Houston that would have saved her connection because of the long wait. Two hours later, I was told that the airplane that would take me from Detroit to Grand Rapids was in Washington DC as we speak, undergoing repairs, and would likely be delayed as well. I was further told that I should fly to Detroit because "chances are good" I would make it to Grand Rapids tonight. That was the best he could do, he said with a shrug. I went to the seating area to wait further. After a moment, I felt a bit peckish and picked up some pepperoni pizza from the purveyor across the parkway. Midway through my 2nd bite, I was informed that the gate had changed, pack up your belongings and trot (1 mile) to B15. B15 was under construction. There were bulldozers and open dirt at B15. As it turned out, we were to take a shuttle out to the 'remote parking area' for our airplane. My fellow passengers and I finally boarded a variable-height all-purpose shuttle bus, and waited (which, as you know, comes standard with a NWA ticket). Finally, we drove out to an airplane, parked all alone on the tarmac, and after extensive adjustment and wiggling, were able to walk directly from bus to plane. With a little rain shelter, too. That was a nice touch I must admit. After getting cozy in my $15 upgrade exit row window seat, we waited some more. Another 30 minutes or so. It was rush hour, said the pilot. Naturally, we arrived in Detroit well after my flight to Grand Rapids departed. It was at this point I began wondering about new acronyms for NWA: Not Working Again? No Way Anytime? Nincompoops With Airplanes? Turns out there were more to come, as Northwest has an entire gate dedicated to rebooking broken connections. And, as you would expect, the rebooking center features the customary long wait. 2 hours again. I found that I was automatically rebooked for 8:30 the next morning (it was now 9:00 PM or so), but I was on my own for where to stay and how to pay for it. It's a 3 hour drive from Detroit to GR, so why can't they just give me a free rental car and I'd be on my way? "Oh, we don't have any agreements with rental companies," she said. "Isn't there any other way?" I asked. There happened to be one more flight that night to Grand Rapids, but it was overbooked. I could fly standby, if I liked. Yes, I liked. So I waited in THAT line for about 1 hour while all the confirmed passengers boarded. I made it aboard as one of the last 3 allowed, and I was grateful. I slunk into the very last row, up against the bathrooms in an Airbus A320. 158 passengers in front of me continued to breathe and make the air humid and stale as we waited some more. The first officer announced he was resetting the lights, and did so. The cabin went dark, then flickered, then the lights came on. Except for the 'fasten seat belt' lights, which seemed to be the initial problem. 3 resets later, they called a mechanic. I took a nap to avoid the chatty Spaniard beside me as the mechanic worked the problem. I awoke an hour later to find myself not in Grand Rapids, but still in FREAKING DETROIT. It's a 20 minute flight. This was not turning out to be my day for travel. As I now announce, I made it home safely. Even my luggage made it home, which impressed me substantially - but I still harbor some bitterness toward Northwest.

Today, Girl and Mrs. Spiffy are in Disneyworld enjoying 80 degree swimming weather. Boy and I went to Crystal Mountain to go skiing, and had the ultimate best weather day ever. It would have been perfect except for a potentially broken thumb and a really broken cell phone. Clumsiness aside, it was a perfect day. I almost forgot how much Northwest sucks. Almost.

Wordnerd's Armpit

There has been much talk lately of the perils of winter driving. Especially since we got a serious dose of winter recently. Now, I do my best to drive responsibly and professionally at all times, and avoid getting or giving the bird or rude names (do NOT fail to click those links, unless you're a limp wristed pusillanimous pansy). I've been driving well more than half my life, and have made a living of it at times. My early driving record was fairly atrocious, but I've recovered nicely and am the darling of insurance agencies everywhere. In fact, I was once interviewed by a gecko. But, that's another story. Today at lunchtime, I was tooling about the countryside in my trusty Jeep, munching pretzels and enjoying the swirling, glittering snow - bright and shining like millions of stars in the sunlight. I traveled down a dirt road in very rural farm country, twisting and turning with ease and confidence. We were in 4-wheel-drive, my Jeep and me, and life was good. Snow drifted across the road in a few places, and I plowed through like a daggone car commercial. I half expected an elephant to be dropped onto the luggage rack from the sky, to make a a point about the excessive strength of my vehicle. The time came to return to work, so I swung around in an intersection and continued from whence I came. The clouds thickened and the snow became grayer. I plowed through another weak little drift, and felt my wheels pull to the right. I countered left and added some gas, trusting my fourby to pull us out, but I continued traveling right. Suddenly, I found myself leaning into my passenger seat and slowing quickly. I stopped a few feet short of a scrubby little tree, and about 3 inches from a bobwahr fence. Yep, I was ditched. Irrevocably. Houston didn't have problems like this (probably because it doesn't snow there). Rocking it just made matters worse, and I sunk slightly into the tundra. To add spice to my predicament, I had no idea where I was, street name wise. And, I left my AAA card at home. Brilliant. There was a farm house 1/4 mile in front of me, and another one 1/4 mile behind. I called Jason at the office, to see if he'd be in my neighborhood (with the plow truck and a tow strap) any time soon. Then he asked the dreaded question: "Where are you?" Crap. Crap crap crappity. I told him I'd call back, and decided to run for it. Grabbing my gloves... then another layer of gloves, and another sweater... I climbed down out of the driver's side door and headed for the nearest faraway house. The wind was biting and harsh, but it wasn't a terribly long walk. The driveways, however, were interminable. Rather than spend another 4 minutes in the cold to find out a house was unoccupied, I hazarded a peek in a mailbox, hoping the homeowner didn't keep a salt-filled shotgun by the kitchen window to ward off mailbox raiders. Nothing. I walked a little way more and scored a freshly-filled mailbox, sporting an envelope with an address on it. I called Jason back and he Mapquested me, saying he'd be along shortly. I climbed back in Jeepers (I'm really starting to think it needs a name, any suggestions?) to wait for my eventual rescue. I pondered my plight, and the plethora of vehicular problems which permeated my past. I've been fairly fortunate, this being only my 3rd time in a ditch. No serious accidents to speak of, only a few minor crunches (other than the time I was hit by a car while riding a bike, and another time I hit a car while riding a bike - I'm sensing a pattern here, but I might be getting overly parenthetical). This isn't so bad, except for the utter helplessness of it. I'm ok, there is no known damage, and I didn't hit any frozen cows. Still not a bad day. Eventually, Jason and his truck and chain arrived, we shoveled out a little hollow hooked it up. Within 60 yards we had tugged it out backwards. The upside? It was a 2 hour lunch, and I got to prove again that I am an idiot. Any adventures you'd care to share?

That's MINUS Seventeen

It seems lately that I only get to go skiing once or twice a year. It's always a good time, and I usually can hobble around without too much discomfort afterwards. But, for some reason, it always seems to be on the coldest blooming day of the year. And so it was today. The high was to reach a balmy 6 degrees, but when we bailed out of the Jeep at high noon, it was all of 3. With a wind chill (at the flat airport) of -13. I was pretty certain that on the slopes, with weird wind patterns and the highest point in the county we could expect some nastier wind chills. I had promised Boy after our Long Beach trip last weekend I'd take him to the hill, and since church was canceled and the sun was peeking out, we decided there was no better time than the present to burn a day on the slopes. Boy is halfway through his season pass, and every time he goes out he has a blast. He has a friend on the ski team, so we called after we hit the road to see if she'd join us. She would, and we picked her up on the way. The roads were loosely packed with cars heading to and fro the beer stores and party destinations, as I hear there was to be a game on teevee today (yay Colts!). We arrived at the local 'mountain' and I coughed up my bank card so it could be bent over. I have my own skis, and Boy has his season pass, so we kinda got a twofer. But, it still came to $39 for a 4-hour pass. All I could do was shrug and get dressed. Boy and his friend had been here several times and wanted to ski The Face, this hill's attempt at an expert run. I tried to talk them into a run on the bunny hill, since I was certain to be rusty. They almost relinquished, which means we were immediately riding the chair lift to the tallest point on site. The uphill ride was lovely and serene, except for the harsh, biting east wind. Even though I had 14 layers, I wished for a couple more. We dismounted the chair lift and I remembered what was so thrilling about skiing on the 6-foot unloading hill: I am completely at gravity's mercy. Oh sure, I could influence my destiny, but only Gravity truly controls it, as far as a fat man on skis is concerned. This is the same hill I first skied upon, way back in 1981. The place is largely unchanged, except for the addition of snowboard terrain. The same chair lifts that hauled my shivering butt up the hill way back then are still chugging along, the same fences (mostly) keep daredevil kids from a certain doom, and the same menacing snow cannons are mounted along the sides of the hills. I remember getting off the Ski Club bus, watching a few skiers slalom down the hill, and thinking, "This looks easy. Let's hit the biggest hill." On that day, The Face was littered with moguls. I had no idea how to get off a chair lift, let alone ski a mogul. I spent 65% of that run on my snow-packed tookus, and decided I best take advantage of gentler slopes until I sort things out. I rode the Double to the top of a long, straight, shallow hill ideal for the 'advanced beginner.' Since it was long and straight, it was possible to build up some impressive speed after a while. Especially if you go in a perfectly straight line, since you have no idea how to slow or turn yourself. I feverishly willed myself to the left or right, and sometimes my skis would miraculously obey. Sometimes not, such as the time I neared the creek that divides the hill from the lodge and rental buildings. I willed myself to a stop in a hurry, since the bus wouldn't be leaving for another 2 hours and I had just learned about hypothermia in science class. My methods were sloppy, but effective: simply fall over. Worked every time. Not much for impressing the snow bunnies, but I was sure falling in the creek would impress them less. My technique has improved over the years, and I can hang with most of the folks I ski with (my kid). Falling over is a thing of the past, for the most part. Except for one time today, when the young decided we were all going to make a sharp right turn to exit the chair lift. I was on the right, and wasn't in on the plan, so I skied straight ahead. They steered me firmly into a steel stake, planted ever-so-solidly in the snow. Ow. We had an awesome time, rocketing down long and nearly deserted slopes, veering off through the woods, and even trying out some jumps. I tried several by sheer accident; once I followed Friend of Boy up a steep hill, only to find that the steep hill ended in a pretty serious jump. Nothing but sky. I'm sure it would have been graceful and amazing, if done by someone younger and less fat - and who expected a jump to be there. I landed it, and was wiping my frozen brow when I found myself standing on air again. They had cleverly cut a ledge into the hill, so one moment you're on snow and the next you're not. Again, this could have been cool were it not a total surprise. I landed on my skis, but my hips, knees, and teeth slammed together as I mentally reviewed my company's health plan. No permanent damage that I know of, but I couldn't do 4 minutes on the stair stepper this morning. Boy got in the habit of losing one of his skis every time he got on the chair lift. If you've never practiced, it's a challenge to get off the lift hill with one ski. He would routinely veer left, bounce off the wooden fence and fall over. There he would wait until someone a few chairs back delivered his escaped ski. It was great fun to watch. At the end of 4 hours, we retreated to the lodge for some nutrition (elephant ears and hot cocoa) while we shed our gear. My face was showing the effects of the bitter cold. I'm told I had purple cheeks, which is not good as far as I can tell. My bandanna face-warmer was frozen solid, the fog on my glasses had turned to frost, and my toes, legs, and butt were numb. My pantlegs were mashed into my skin inside my ski boots - I can still feel the phantom creases in my shin. The most glorious feeling was peeling those hard plastic boots from my feet. Okay, the 2nd most glorious - a long shower set to 'boil' was pretty darn nice at the end of the day. I can't wait to go again. =================== By popular demand, here's the recipe for the chili I made last night. Note: this is NOT health food. Bacon grease and tofu do not go together. It was a smaller batch, and turned out very red and tomatoey. I skipped the cooling step, and it was slightly noticeable, but it still turned out delicious. I'm having it for lunch today, and really looking forward to it. Yum! Spiffy Chili Big can dark kidney beans 1 1/2 lbs ground beef 1 lb REAL bacon (NOT turkey bacon) Green, red, and yellow bell peppers Onion Fresh garlic 2 big cans chunk tomatoes Small can seasoned tomatoes V8 juice (optional) Chili powder Ground red pepper Cayenne, Tabasco, or other spiciness to taste Corn flour

Drain beans, toss in stew or crock pot with all the tomatoes, mix. Dump a heap of chili powder (4-5 tsp) and 1/2 tsp red pepper over top and start simmering. Fry bacon extra crispy. Set on paper towel to cool. Sautee chopped garlic and ½ onion in the bacon grease, toss in pot when done Fry ground beef in same pan - add a generous sprinkling of Montreal Steak seasoning and chili powder, drain well Crumble bacon into pot Chop and add remaining onion, bell peppers Simmer covered 2-4 hours, stirring occasionally Add V8 if more liquid is needed Refrigerate 2-4 hours or overnight Return to simmer or crock pot 2 hours Add spice to taste. If too spicy, add sugar 1 tsp at a time. ½ hour before serving, slowly stir in corn flour to thicken. Serve with shredded cheese, corn bread or rice, sour cream.

The Blizzard Of 07

Yep, that's what they called it alright. They had Rick & Scott, the daily morning talk show on the radio today (on a Saturday!), taking calls about where people were and how bad it was. People were bragging about how many cars were in the ditch and how much snow had drifted across their little stretch of road. Last night I attempted to hook up my glorious Highest-Speed-Ever internet service. I went outside in the harsh and blowing winter, drilled a hole through the garage wall to the cable box, and began stringing cable. My battery drill refused to finish the next hole, so I went inside to get warm while it recharged. After about 3 minutes of getting warm, I decided this was stupid and ran the cable across the family room to the office. It's now joined the ever-growing list of Unfinished Projects, but it will get done as soon as the weather breaks because the wire needs to pass through a closet that's been emptied for this occasion. Into the living room. It's screwing up the ambiance of the Teevee Room, and I can't have that. Currently, my black and coily pipeline is tucked neatly behind a couch, until it gets to the office door. Then it's a trap for woodland wildlife, just waiting to string your leg up in the knotty mess and take you down. Once my duct tape thaws out, I'll fix that problem too. Yeah, I got class, what of it? The internet is a-blazing. However, my 7-year-old computer is not. I discovered just how much of the former slowness could be blamed on dial-up sluggishness: not nearly enough. I've spent 23 hours cleaning up, debugging, and deleting old dusty crap from the ol' family puter. There were scraps of games, smileys, all manner of bookmarks, and unused programs from the Clinton era littering its innards. I nodded off several times in my captain's chair to the clicks and whirs of a previously neglected hard drive. Norton thinks I'm virus free, but I'm not so sure. I'll be unpacking Tracy Lynn's toolbox soon to see what else might lurk in the circuitous recesses of my old machine (thanks again, you rock!). I had planned to post a post this morning, then take Boy skiing. I looked out my window, shivered, and said something along the lines of "Oh, HAYell no." He had been invited to the movies with one friend and sledding with another, so we set up for next week and I got to work on my wadded up mess of a computer. I took a nap while Windows installed 12 updates I'd missed over the years, and woke up ready to do something. The weather outside was frightful, but there was no delightful fire inside, so what to do? I hit the garage door opener and watched snow blow in from the 4 corners of Hoth. The door slid up, up, up, and still all I could see was snow. It was a full 30" deep against the garage door. I gamely pulled on my duck boots and leather gloves and grabbed my trusty shovel. An hour later, Mrs. Spiffy came out all bundled up, only the whites of her eyes showing. I could tell it was her because the kids are far too smart to come out in weather like this. We shoveled in silence for a few minutes, then agreed that a snowblower sounds about right for a Saturday afternoon. The driveway was only 1/4 done, but the Jeep was warmed up for the upcoming provision run, and I had high hopes that she could blast through the shin-deep drifts. Sure enough, she had us into the deserted byways in no time. The radio cackled on about how stupid one would have to be to travel on a day like this, and there were times when I might agree, except my tires kept an amazing grip on the road and the heat was a-crankin', so I led us in a chorus of 'It's Not So Bad.' We arrived at the nearly deserted Home Depot and joined a short line of folks who were there for the same reason as we. It was down to the Ultra Pricey, High-Testosterone models, or a couple different mid-size driveway specials. I narrowed it down to two machines with the same engine; one had electric start, and the other had metal blades. I went with the metal blades, because when I throw a rock, I want it thrown. I finagled a gas can into the deal (I already own 3 gas cans, but they were all in my garage. Empty, of course), swiped the card, and we were off into the whiteout again. But first, the gas station. I filled the Jeep and the new gas can and went inside for the provisions. We'd run out of toilet paper and bread, which is bad if you're gonna be snowed in for the weekend. The cashier shared with me that she didn't like Charmin because it sticks to her ass. Hello? Did I need to know that?? Now I'll be all skeeved out thinking about it every time I visit the littlest room. Jibblies. On the way home, we noted the tracks in the medians and shoulders that indicated all the pileups we'd heard about. Apparently it was a very busy day for crashes, and we had missed the worst of it. We passed one car being pulled out after collecting a day's worth of snow on the roof, and came up to another freshly-spun compact jobby, lights on and facing the wrong way. I eased onto the left shoulder with the four-ways flashing, and asked if I could help. The girl behind the wheel said they were OK, but it was stuck pretty good. Her passenger boyfriend came out and helped me dig snow from under the body and back wheels, but after much pushing and tire spinning, it was still buried. A guy with a big red truck pulled over and asked if he could help, and we welcomed him and his tow strap. A short tug and she was free. While I helped him wrap up the tow strap, a guy passed slowly on the highway, window down and scowl on his face, shouting, "Get off the road, assholes!" I waved, hoping for some of BrendaLove's telekinetic powers. He'll wind up in a ditch someday soon, I'm sure of it. We got home and I immediately set to work with my new toy. It was fully assembled, had Factory Oil installed, and was raring to go. Two pulls and it roared to life, ready to chew through the piles of fluff that just kept coming. As I was making my 3rd pass, satisfied with the enormous rooster tail I could create, I remembered an announcement I heard in Kindergarten. Mr. Van Essen, the principal, came into class and asked us all to make construction paper sympathy cards for the widow across the street. Her husband had been shoveling snow over the weekend, and died of a heart attack right in the driveway. I remember running home that afternoon to warn my dad that shoveling was bad, and clung to his leg as he got his coat and hat. He assured me that I had nothing to worry about, for he had a snowblower. It was a great beastly thing, rusty green with a big smoky engine on top and chains on the tires. He'd come in smelling of gas fumes and cold, grumbling about another window that he'd have to fix in the spring. I was happy to join the club of former-shovelers today. And so, as I read the announcement that church is canceled tomorrow, I'm ready for anything Momma Nature can throw at me. I think I'll be staying in and brewing up some of my blue-ribbon chili tomorrow; come over for lunch, if you're brave enough!

Driving Sleds

Back in the glory days of fast cars, unspent youth, and limited responsibility, we had some fun. Not so much with the brains, but that's OK when you're invincible. There were all kinds of things to do with a car, a BB gun, a sled, and a rope. Only two of those things played into my night in jail. But, that's a story for another time. One dark winter's night, my friends and I had watched all the TV and eaten all the pizza we could stand. Star Trek and Mission Impossible were done, only the infomercials remained. The Mountain Dew was gurgling and working its fizzy magic on us, keeping us alert into the wee hours. What sort of adventure could we have on a night like this? Too young, ignorant, and innocent to find a late-night party, we had to make our own fun. My house was in a closely-packed neighborhood, with quiet lighted streets, straight sidewalks, and large trees. We snuck out the side door from my basement lair, gathered some supplies from the garage, fired up the Monte Carlo, and eased out of the driveway. After driving around a while and not agreeing on what to do, I hit upon an idea. I pulled over, grabbed a length of rope and a red plastic sled from the trunk, and tied it to the bumper. "Okay, who wants to be first?" I said, rubbing my hands together enthusiastically. My friend Greg and I had a long history of sledding exploits. Our Jr. High (middle school?) was atop a large, wide hill. Every winter recess would find kids by the gross flinging themselves down the slope, building ramps and jumps, and trying all kinds of daredevilry. He and I would position ourselves in the middle of the hill and hijack sleds. The goal was to get the rider off the sled and continue their ride to the bottom, but jumping on top of an occupied sled like a stack of flapjacks was OK too. Most of our victims thought it was great fun and we rarely got a complaint or a bloody nose. After school, we'd go to Greg's house, which was nestled against a hilly forest. There was a long, fork-filled narrow trail that emptied out at a creek near the highway. The trick was to get all the way down attached to the sled, avoid the trees, and bail out before the creek. He would ride on his knees every time, bouncing around like a springy jack-in-the-box, sometimes flying to impressive heights. I, being the fat kid, would usually ride only on padded surfaces, of which I had plenty. And try to remain facing downhill. I wasn't surprised when Greg volunteered to be the first contestant in our carsledding experiment. He jumped (!) onto his knees into the sled, grabbed the reins, and said he was ready. I climbed back into the warm car, adjusted the sideview mirrors down, and pulled away from the curb. He swung back and forth like a water skier, jumping the ruts in the road. I rolled down my window a crack and heard him whisper/shout "Faster!!" There was no traffic; all the houses were dark. I gave it some gas and turned a corner, fishtailing a bit. He swung around, skidding up against the curb, and banked back into a smooth ride. I could hear him having a great time. The kid next to me wanted to try, and I hit the brakes. The car slid to a stop; Greg slid into the bumper. He hopped in the passenger seat, rubbing his forehead, while the other kid took his place on the sled. Greg said it was a riot, but I should have gone faster. This car could certainly go faster, so I stomped on it, shooting a rooster tail of snow past the kid. Until the car swerved, which placed the flying snow on a path with his face. We roared with laughter while the poor victim got a high-speed whitewash, which must have made it hard to see where he was headed. By sheer luck or determination of some poor angel, he dipped under a pickup truck, in and out between the front and rear wheels, dodging a MFN headache. We raced, turned, stopped and started through the city blocks, reaching ridiculous speeds. Like I said, it was a good thing we were invincible. It was my turn, and I wasn't sure who should drive my car. Greg, who was unlicensed; or the Other Kid, who may be harboring some bitterness about the ride I provided. I went with Greg. He took off slowly, getting a feel for the car. The silence of the night was broken by the crunchy squeaking of tires and the whish of sled on snow. He began to gain some confidence, speeding up on the straightaways, and allowing a little swoop in his turns. I careered into a curb, nearly capsizing near a telephone pole. I righted my sled and willed it toward the center of the car. He rounded a corner, playing crack the whip with me. I saw the Buick logo on a parked car approaching my face. I cringed. I ducked. I opened my eyes to find that it had missed me. We went over a speed bump (so called for the high speeds at which teenage drivers take them) and I was launched from my little patch of plastic. I had enough height to land on the trunk, but Greg gunned it and I bounced on the slick pavement, my empty sled snaking out in front of me. I slowly rose to my feet while Greg slid around another corner, oblivious to his missing rider. I started walking home, expecting him to come back around eventually. As I neared home, I saw my car in the driveway, still idling. Greg gripped the steering wheel, pale as a ghost, staring straight ahead. I wondered what happened, until I saw the sled. It was wedged solidly under the rear wheel of a truck. The rope had ripped free of the sled, bits of red plastic strewn along the road. I approached the car and knocked on the window. He screamed like a girl, with feeling and vigor. He took a breath and screamed some more. He stopped when I started laughing. I explained what happened, and he took some comfort in that - but he was jumpy until he finally fell asleep. It didn't hit me until the next day what could have happened. That still didn't stop us from going carsledding the next weekend.

Let It Snow

I love trains. Normally, they fascinate me. Except for when they stand between me and where I'd like to be. This morning, as I tooled along the country road to work in the dark (another joyous feature of Winter in Michigan), I joined the stack of cars waiting for a train. No big deal, they usually zip along pretty quickly at that crossing. As I drew closer, however, I realized the train was stopped. This might be a while. No problem, Heywood Banks was on the radio singing about Big Butter Jesus on I-75 in Ohio. I learned the words to the chorus and sang along. The reflective tape on the locomotives started to move. Yay! Then they stopped. Then they went the other direction a few feet, and stopped again. It dawned on me: This guy is rocking it to get unstuck from a snow bank. No effing way. I love my Jeep. It's been locked into 4WD since the day after Thanksgiving (except when I took the kids out for donuts in the parking lot), and boy I've needed it. =============================== Ok, I caved in to peer pressure (again) and signed up for Firefox. So far it's, "Omg! Where have you been all my life, and why didn't I find you sooner?!?" I have a friend like that. I still can't get HaloScan to stick to my brand new site. All the cool kids have it. Maybe it's the beta-ness of it all. Anyone know how to get under the hood and fix my hyper-drive here? =============================== I came to work this morning in the aforementioned dark, as I often do. A couple of us early risers enjoy getting a few things done before the phones start ringing and pesky coworkers start their pesking. When that happens, SOP is to turn on only half of the fluorescent mood lighting; it may save energy, but it's more about atmosphere. Well, when the masses start trickling in, some gung-ho morning-type cube-dwelling hyphenated-person will inevitably jam on the high beams and shout, "Good morning!" at the top of his Neanderthal lungs. Normally, I'm cheerful and friendly to all. Today, he earned an inarticulate growl. He came over, slapped me on the back, and said, "I didn't know you were nocturnal!" This led to a discussion. If you're right handed, but can write with your left as well, that's ambidextrous. If you eat veggies, but also meat, you're omnivorous. Well, what if you're up at night AND during the day? C'mon, one of you purveyors of carnal word knowledge must know. The comments button was just MADE for you.