Learning about job interviews

A few weeks ago I received my actual orders for retirement – all on paper and formalizing that it will actually happen. And, as I’ve mentioned previously in this space, that I joined the Air Force for pizza, I suppose this is as good a time as any to let you in on what that’s all about. Back in April of 1986 I was sitting at home wondering just what it was I was going to do with myself after high school graduation that June. I’d been accepted to a couple colleges but had no discernible cash and a “misspent” high school career carrying three sports, a job, a great circle of friends and a social life. All of that, of course, left me precious little time to notice – or care – of my top half standing (generously) amongst my peers.

 Anyway, I’m sitting at home and the phone rings. It turns out that Eric – you’ve read about Eric here before - well, he had already signed up to join and I guess he gave my number to the recruiter - Kermit (I swear).

Now, Kermit had a good line of patter and it went something like this: “Look, come on down and you can take a test and have some pizza – I’m buying.” Hmm… free food... well, as I had nothing better to do, I went for the pizza. I took his test and before I knew it he was calling me back telling me I qualified for any enlisted job in the Air Force and I scored especially high on the electronics and mechanical sections of the test.

Even at 17, to say I was stunned would be a gross understatement. The U.S. government would, if I requested it, train me to be a mechanic or an electrician. In fact, Kermit made a concerted effort to get me to do just that.

Let me remind you I once actually grabbed two live connections while showing Shadow “not” to do that very thing. So, you can understand how the idea of me working with machinery or electronics is foolhardy at the very best. The idea of me working on jet engines or weapons of varying volatility, was patently absurd.

Still, I had limited options and continuing to work at the grocery store was not high on the list. So, in essence, I signed up for pizza, despite my friend Mike’s insistence I should join the Army with him.

Mike made a seductive pitch – the Army was only 2 years while the Air Force was 4 and there was more college money involved. But I just couldn’t shake the fact he was asking me to join the Army – and to drive a TANK. If there could be conceived anything more foolish than me working with electronics or mechanical apparati, it would be me at the controls of a 60-ton machine designed to reduce other machines to rubble by way of a disturbing amount of ordnance.

So, instead, I would be a journalist and do my 4 years. That was the plan. Not a day longer. And, after being assigned to Arizona and sitting there for a year desperately wanting to not be in Arizona, the Air Force offered me another assignment – two actually – but I’d need to stay in one more year.

Five years. That’s it. Not a day longer.

After four and a bit I was ready to go – the countdown was on. Then I met Shadow, got married and re-enlisted.

Ok, 8 years. That’s it. Not a …. well, let’s not be hasty.

So, here I sit (with the 29th being my 25th anniversary of service) and after pushing all the magic buttons I have paperwork in hand that will let me say, with some certainty, 25 years, 7 months and 3 days. That’s it. Not a day more.

And the real bummer is that the whole “putting in your retirement papers” process, which I had heard about, envied over, and dreamed of for years, was so utterly, hopelessly and unequivocally… boring.

I had figured that if it took stacks of forms to get into the service, it would surely take a ream of paper to get out and I planned to giggle my way through the entire stack. But alas, no. I answered three questions online. I pushed a ‘submit’ button and my request was magically whisked to my commander who had to call me to “confirm a couple things.”

He called and said, “So, I got your retirement request. Are you sure you want to do this?”

To which I replied, “You’re new aren’t you? I don’t think we’ve met.”

And that was it. A few weeks later I had a confirmed retirement date and now I only have 6 months left. The scary part, of course, is that I have only 6 months left.

Now, I have to go out into the “real” world and find a job. I’ve got to write resumes and do interviews and convince people that hiring me would be a good idea.
So I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time on the internet learning about interviews. I’m coming away from that experience feeling pretty darned good and here’s why: there are a lot of really, really stupid people in the world.

From reasonable and legitimate human resources websites I’ve found lists of things that interviewers hear from people who are seeking meaningful employment – people who I will now consider my competition.

The following are some of the responses employers have heard from job candidates:

- When asked about his experience as a branch manager, the applicant said: “I’m sorry, I didn’t read my resume before the interview.”

- May I have a cup of coffee? I think I may still be a little drunk from last night

- There’s the guy who forgot dark socks to wear with his suit and colored in his ankles with a black felt-tip marker.

- The genius who turned in a resume made of colored paper with glitter designs on the borders

- Hobbies: Getting drunk every night down by the water, playing guitar and smoking pot

- Achievements: Nominated for prom queen

- Skills: I can type without looking at the keyboard

- Reason for leaving: I thought the world was coming to an end.

- Experience: Have not yet been abducted by aliens.

- In what local areas do you prefer to work? Smoking.

- Reason for leaving last job: After saying, ‘it would be a blessing to be fired.’

- The person who asked to see the interviewer’s resume to see if they were qualified to judge

- The guy who wore a jogging suit to an interview as a financial vice president

- Asked if the interviewer would like some cocaine before starting

- Interrupted the interview to phone his therapist for advice on answering interview questions

What I have to do now is differentiate myself from the gaggles of coherent and sensible people out there looking for work. I need to position myself so that hiring managers will think of me first. I’ve got to make that impression that shows clearly, I am the person a company needs and I know how to use my skill and experience to get things done.

If you’re reading this and you’re an HR person – call me. I’ll buy you pizza.

White Elephants, Unicorns and Cupcake Snowmen

First, my apologies for anyone who actually reads this and is wondering what I’ve been up to for the last few weeks – I’ve been playing “Skyrim” mostly. If you give this game as a gift, only give it to people you don’t want to see much of.

Tonight we had one of those terrors of the modern age – the office Christmas party. Now, I don’t dislike these parties but I’m not what you’d call a “sparkly” or “bubbly” guy and people always seem to want to be more cheery at Christmas than is probably good for a person. The real problem, however, is that office parties all seem to have one common denominator … the white elephant gift exchange. This is generally bad. Well, it is for me, because I have the luck of a Saudi Arabian dradle maker.

And buying gifts for these things? Good grief, it’s as stressful as going to the doctor for your 40th birthday physical. Despite the fact the purchase limit is always absurdly low, you don’t want to be the guy who gives a glass jar of spaghetti. You want to get something that is one of two things: useful or funny. Funny is better. Useful and funny is kind of like winning at bingo – someone always seems to do it and it never seems to be you. So there’s a lot of time put into this silliness and you have to hope everyone else is as neurotic about it as you are or you’re just going to end up disappointed – again.

This year the stars aligned and 20 people aside from me were tilting toward neuroticism or were drunk while shopping. There was a shake weight (which is pretty funny if you’re not the one getting it), there was a KISS lava light (and really, what 40 year old wouldn’t want one?), there were magic 8 balls and Buddha incense burners and the obligatory bottle of booze. And when it came time for me to open my bag, I was thinking only this, “Smile and make the best of it…”

The box was about the size of a watch box and white, like the boxes those little statues of angels and stuff come in and it was that thought that was giving me palpitations. Porcelain statuary belongs on bedside tables at old folks’ homes – my apartment has enough aesthetic problems.

But as I opened the box I had a glimmer of hope, because it looked like someone had gotten me a can of Spam – which I thought was really funny in a “what-a-wonderfully-random-gift” kind of way. But it was better.



Product of Ireland!



Somewhere in China, at this very moment, there are small children being forced to work on an assembly line and crying the whole time because they are putting leg and head and body segments of a stuffed animal into a corned beef hash can labeled… ‘Unicorn Meat’.

That is, quite frankly, freaking awesome.

According to the can – which I’m willing to bet was designed by a room full of drunk dads of 5 year old girls – there is ‘magic in every bite’ and Unicorn Meat has 100% of the daily allowance of Magic, Hopes & Dreams, Smiles, Happiness, and Sunshine. And 200% of your daily intake of rainbows.

There’s even a helpful graph on the back of the can showing which cuts of the unicorn relate to which ingredients – obviously magic is from the horn and not surprisingly rainbows are from it’s backside.

I have half a mind to re-package it and send it to a co-worker’s daughter who is asking for all things unicorn for Christmas. Still, I think I may keep it, as the can says Unicorn Meat is “an excellent source of sparkles.”

-----

On a sort-of-related holiday note, last week I entered the world of competitive baking. Ok, I made some cupcakes which were judged along with a dozen other sets of cupcakes. I didn’t win, but our boss publicly stated he liked my display the best so I present it for you below.

Let the record show the triple layer red velvet cupcakes were made from scratch as was the butter cream icing. The hats were made from Oreos and marshmallows (painted black with edible 'paint') and everything on the display is entirely edible. The barricades are Toblerones.

In front center is the Police Snowman with his jar of pepper spray. To his right there is a protestor on his face, with his candy hands tied behind his back with red licorice. Chocolate liquor bottles are also in evidence.
I can't prove the voting was fixed, but I think I should have won.

10 things I'm thankful for today (and everyday)

Thoughtful introspection is not a calling card of mine, but as today is Thanksgiving and as I sit here in BOB2.0 contemplating spending some hours playing computer games, I think it’s fair to say that as an individual I have plenty to be thankful for. As a nation, I think we do too, despite the best efforts of some groups that give us reason to give up hope altogether…but that’s why we vote.

So, in an effort not to be overburdening to you, I offer a quick list of the top 10 (non-political) things I’m thankful for this year:

1. I’m thankful the NFL got their stuff figured out and put on a season.

2. I’m thankful to be in a place where I don’t have to shop at Wal-Mart

3. I’m thankful that Shadow is a great cook who taught even me how to properly roast a chicken – or else I’d probably be starving to death, or weigh 400 pounds

4. I’m thankful I’m not French

5. I’m thankful I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but meat=yummy and let’s face it, why go through life without bacon?)

6. I’m thankful that in both BOB and BOB2.0 I haven’t had any crazy neighbors – no screamers or fighters or people with stadium-quality stereo speakers

7. I’m thankful (still) that disco is dead

8. I’m thankful there are a few people in this big wide world who actually read this (truly, thanks, I appreciate it)

9. I’m thankful to be part of the 0.45% of Americans who have worn a uniform of our nation and thankful for the even smaller percentage (and their families) who have sacrificed what they have and continue to give meaning to holidays like today.

10. I’m thankful for the ceaseless patience of Shadow who for 16 months (and counting) has been mother, father, chauffer, provider, caregiver, disciplinarian, teacher, ATM, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, nurse and more – all by herself – while being cheerleader to me as I search for meaningful employment for next year. I hope our children grow up to appreciate what they have by way of a superstar mom.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Another item on a list of good decisions

Amongst the better decisions I’ve made in my lifetime are the following:

1. Marry Shadow

2. Not doing the 55 mile option in yesterday’s Soldier Ride San Antonio

While the wind certainly had a hand in that decision it was really formalized for me when I arrived at the event and parked, got out of my car and came face to face with the guy who parked next to me – Dave.



Obviously toward the beginning of the ride - thanks to Dave
for the picture.



It’s a small world, let me tell you. Dave is a guy I met about 15 years ago while stationed in the Azores. I knew he was in San Antonio because I’d run into him back in March but the odds of us both being at this event and parking next to each other were prohibitively low. In reality, Dave was my lottery ticket yesterday for capable motor function today.

You see, about a year ago, Dave started riding a bicycle with some enthusiasm – enough so that this summer he biked across Iowa – for fun. So it was nice to not only know someone at this event but also to talk a little ‘shop’ as it were. This is what he said to me after we discussed what we’d been doing on bicycles for the last few months – namely him biking across large square-ish states and me getting my bike wedged between two trees.

“Don’t do the long ride.”

I took it as a sign from above and as I felt no real obligation toward the longer distance, I heeded his, what turned out to be, stellar advice.

The Soldier Ride isn’t actually ‘A’ ride, but a series of rides put on by the Wounded Warrior Project across the country to raise money for America’s wounded warriors – many of whom were in evidence at the ride, and some with special bikes that you’ve probably seen before, where they are hand-cranked instead of food pedaled.

The San Antonio version of the Ride was the last for the year and nearly 500 cyclists showed up for a ride that was relatively flat, but somehow it seemed the organizers were able to contrive a looped course that was against the wind the entire time. I don’t like riding against the wind, I really don’t and as I entered a long straightaway into the teeth of this wind I just thought, ‘this really sucks.’

Two minutes later at about the 15 mile point, one of the wounded warriors on a hand-crank bike passed me.

As I watched him go, I thought, the wind isn’t really so bad, you know.

So for the rest of the ride I forgot the wind. I enjoyed the sunshine, the mid-70s temperatures and yes, even the pain in my knees, feet and legs. Because at the end of the day, I still had all my original stock features when so many of my fellow Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen and Marines, do not.

On my short list of good choices, I should add participating in the Soldier Ride, even the little 25 mile version.

Special thanks again to those who helped the San Antonio ride raise more than $92,000. You should expect an email from me again next year.

Jon and Marie VanGuilder; Valerie & Timothy Trefts; Norman and Anne Bushey; Steven Bushey; Lynne & Steve Corry; Scott Beaulieu; Scott Wakefield; Marilyn Main; Ed Boucher; and Dave Smith.

Slutty Doctor...Paging Slutty Doctor...

I'm home with the Shadow and kids for a week and I think a little recap of Halloween is in order. Really, it is. Trust me. First, let's do a little run-down...

- Scream mask complete with a fake blood pump, check.

- Rotting corpse that lets you actually see the inside of a hacker-dissected body, check.

- Semi form-fitting skull mask with matching scythe-blade of death, check.

- Slutty doctor, uh… technically, I suppose, check.

To be fair, those few outfits were probably the worst of the lot and they wouldn’t have even done justice to a haunted house or any party with limited expectation of a good time. However, it's also worth mentioning these costumes were seen at an elementary school Halloween parade for kindergarten and first grade students.

Yes, 5 and 6 year olds dressed up in mass slaughter gear. I think anthropologists hundreds of years from now will scratch their heads and just constantly mouth the words, ‘what the fu…?” I’m not against Halloween or dressing up or any of the rest (I mean, free candy – what’s not to like?) but where in our society did we entirely lose sight of what it means to be appropriate? 

There were 5-year-olds who were visibly frightened by a 6-year-old with red blood-like substance cascading down a pale white mask. It’s hard to rally the princesses and fairies or even the witches or superheroes when they’re staring at costumes of death and mayhem that belong at the parties of much older people.  It’s like we’re witnessing the topic of the first three sessions of their future therapy.

And while it’s bad enough there were a few kids who obviously have deep-seated psychological issues of their own – slutty doctor presented a whole other world of inexplicable decision making.

How and in what universe does a grown woman wake up and say, “I’m going to wear the studded collar, thigh-high stockings that kind of look like black latex boots with red ribbons for ties; a tight red corset; the black fuck-me pumps; and, I guess, because this event will be at an elementary school, I’ll throw on a white lab coat for decency.”

Now, you may be saying, “Roe, you got an awfully good description of slutty doctor…” and you’d be right, because it was a train-wreck of phenomenal proportions. Shadow saw her and was cross and amused at the same time. Kind of like the pissed-off sympathy you have for people on reality singing shows who are obviously at the bottom of the cerebral food chain but who believe their 8 tone-deaf friends are the ultimate arbiters of vocal talent.

You see, Slutty Doctor is merely a description of the costume. The woman herself was afflicted by a deficiency of taste rivaled only by mega-rich teenagers who buy opulent California palaces only to let them be decorated by graffiti artists. Slutty doctor has also apparently lost the ability to distinguish the difference between how something looks on a package model (a svelte sports car, 20-ish) and how something will look on her (a meth-lab sofa, 50-ish).

While witnessing this act of ocular terrorism, Shadow shared with me one of those English-isms that I adore. She stared at this woman and just mumbled, “mutton dressed as lamb.”  For my money, that line was worth the entire spectacle and that is just going to have to suffice because I didn’t get any photos. It was just too scary.

There are how many beers in a rack?

I finally have definitive proof that the internet is NOT bringing us together as a nation or making us a more homogenized society. You would think that it would – because we are all sharing the same platforms, looking at the same stuff (well, some of the same stuff) and we are, we’re told, connected to a degree never before possible without two tin cans and a bit of string.

Still, there is some way to go before we are all conversing using only thought waves and foregoing speech altogether. I know this because of beer. You see, the last time I went to a gathering I asked the host if I could bring anything – you know, because it’s polite and the Shadow says I should do things like that. Be polite, that is.

As an aside… Ladies, when part of a couple's gathering, there isn’t a man alive who asks “what can I bring?” without hoping that the answer will simply be, “Nothing. We’re good.”

When tasked to do this, I generally have to take out a notepad so I can make sure I understand exactly what type of cold and hot salads are already being brought by others and what food allergies the neighbor’s little punk-ass kid has. I also have to make an extra note to be sure not bring food that might contain anything resembling hot wings.

Oddly, however, in a group made up of only guys, we have no problem asking that question because when we do, we know the answer will be: “bring whatever you want to eat and drink.” And because everyone there is a guy on a kitchen pass, you’re going to like everything on the buffet line. You just know it.

Anyway, I ask the question and I’m told, “Yeah, bring a rack of beer.”

Fine. Easy enough. And I come back with a 12-pack of beer.

Only, here, a 12-pack isn’t a rack. Here, a rack is a case. So not only am I looking dim, I’m also looking cheap despite buying good beer. Where I grew up, a rack was a 12 pack. I’ve read now that it can be as much as a 30-pack of cans. Who knew?

And that got me to thinking – as beer often does – that despite all our technological advances, the fact of the matter is, even in America, we still can’t agree on how many beers are in a rack – much less, decide on far more important issues like how come I can listen to Bryan Adams music now when it used to give me intestinal cramps in my late teens?

And I think as a nation we’re getting ahead of ourselves in trying to solve our debt crisis, or fix the economy, or get people back to work. We should be working to find some common ground on small issues so we can more effectively deal with the big stuff.

Being the fine, upstanding American that I am, I would like to propose a list of items that we should try to tackle first, to give ourselves a much needed boost of confidence and some momentum before taming a multi trillion dollar debt.

1. The rack thing. Obviously. Let’s just start there. We’ll call it a case for domestic beer and a 12-pack for anything that doesn’t suck.

2. Which ear can a guy wear an earring in? It’s different wherever you go. …or have we decided it doesn’t matter and just said to hell with that one? Nobody tells me these things.

3. We need an easily understood spicy index for food. I think we should use geographic regions of the country. New England is for food with the spicy-ness of say, chocolate pudding, while Texas is for food that causes brush fires.

4. We need to agree that marshmallow fluff belongs with the peanut butter at the grocery store and not with the baking products. What the hell is up with that anyway?

5. Beer that is in bottles that are not twist-offs should be made to include an opener on the pack – kind of like the built in sharpener on big boxes of crayons.

6. We need to decide if it’s entirely necessary to have a shampoo called “Black Orchid Velvet Hibiscus” (An actual product – I saw it at Target)

7. We need to come up with a standard computer operating system that doesn’t suck and at the same time doesn’t turn you into an arrogant little prick with a misguided superiority complex.

8. Every coffee house barista should understand the words, “black coffee” and not make you learn 18 words of a foreign language to size it.

9. It’s time that women just start calling a size 38 pant a size 38 and stop trying to kid yourselves into thinking that a low number doesn’t make you fat. If we keep on at this rate my daughter will be ordering her prom dress in a size represented by a fraction.

10. Is it less filling or does it taste great. I think we’ve had enough time to figure it out and I’m just as sure it isn’t both. Let’s move on.

I invite you to add your own thoughts to this list and then we’ll get together and start reaching some consensus. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can bring.

Siri is here - but my version would be better

I’ve been thinking for a while (about 30 seconds truth be told) about getting a new iPhone 4S – with Siri. If you haven’t heard about it, Siri stands, I think, for Small i, Really Irritating. Or it probably does. I don’t know because I don’t have one, but apparently it’s amazing because you can now ask your telephone questions and it will answer you. This is long overdue and there are obviously millions of people in America who could really use one.

I’d be willing to bet though, that Siri gives useful answers instead of the answers people really need to hear. I’m sure, for instance, that if the dumb-ass in the corn maze in Massachusetts had one and said, “I’m lost in a maze and need assistance,” Siri would have calmly answered, “dial 9-1-1 for assistance.”

What it should have said – and what it would have said in my world was, “I see you’re in the middle of a corn maze. Are you freaking kidding me? You can’t find your way out? You can move corn stalks you tool – just pick a direction. And please drop me while you’re at it.”

In fact, I’d program Siri to talk when you didn’t ask it questions. For instance, if Siri realized you were traveling at 65mph and using the device, she’d suddenly just scream, “PULL THE FUCK OVER YOU MORON!” And then, when you did pull over, Siri would talk to your car and shut it down in such a way that it would take you a tow truck, three weeks and a thousand dollars to start it again.

Because she’s a “female,” Siri would also screw with people whom she didn’t like and she’d be bitchy about it. Let’s say, for instance, you didn’t talk to Siri enough. When you get home from work, Siri would wait until dinner and then say very loudly, “Bob, that woman who usually only calls you at work and whose number you keep erasing from my memory is trying to call you again…” Fortunately, the scientists at Apple have that problem fairly under control and it usually only happens once a month.

I hope they’ve built a sense of humor into it though. Because you know there are some people who are really far down the genetic food chain who will ask it questions like this:

Siri, do these pants make my ass look big? “That’s your ass? I thought you left me on the sofa?”

Siri, what do I want to eat tonight? “Yak liver pate and puffer fish. Yeah, definitely get the puffer fish – there’s a guy who does a mean back-alley puffer fish across town – go there.”

Again, I don’t know what Siri is like, but I know what mine would be like and I think most people would agree, mine would be a lot more fun. Hell, people would keep asking it questions like a Magic 8-Ball just to see what it would come up with. I think I’d also build a program just for stoners so that Siri would just say random stuff and constantly mention ding dongs… “pretty lights make cat piano wallaby if we go get some ding dongs…”

There is so much potential here but I’m sure it will be wasted even though I'm pretty sure that within a year or so savvy collegians will make up Siri-based drinking games.

I'm sadly just as sure that network news will lose what trifling little credibility they have left by asking Siri’s take on the news.

“They found Mohmmar Ghadaffi today, Siri, what do you think about that?”

“Well, Bob, I think he probably should have hidden in a corn maze in Massachusetts.”

You Can Help Decide How Far I Ride

This week the folks who put on the Soldier Ride San Antonio - the fund-raising bicycle event to benefit the Wounded Warrior Project - put out the course route and distances for the Nov. 12 ride. The good news is they have a 25-mile route which I can do. The bad news is 25 miles is the shortest route.

There is also a 55 mile route, which my ego says I should try, but my brain tells me would be fool-hardy at the very least.

So, what to do...?

In the finest tradition of the political season which is all to early upon us, I've decided I'm going to let other people make up my mind for me. For you see, as this is a fund-raising venture, there are funds to be raised. Right now I've got a little over $400 but my stated goal has always been $1,000.

So, here's my plan. If I can achieve $1,000 in donations, I'll give the 55 mile distance a shot. For many cyclists this is no big deal. However, I'm not many cyclists. In fact I've never ridden more than 25 at any one time - ever. Hell, I just got the bike a couple months ago. So to try to pedal 55 miles will make excellent use of my body's ability to cripple itself I'm sure.

And in case you're curious, the 55 mile route isn't just a 25 mile route twice - it's one of those routes that once you're on it - you're on it. So short of falling off the bike and being a total wuss, it's pretty much all in after the 9-mile point.

If you are at all inclined, please click the link below which will take you to my Soldier Ride donation page and, if you can, please throw a few bucks to veterans who have quite literally often given a piece of themselves for America.

If you need me to do more than cycle 55 miles to earn your donation, let me hear what you've got in mind and I'll consider it. I only ask you make it do-able and if at all possible, amusing.

As for now, I promise this will be my last mention of the ride until after it's happened and the last time I ask you to consider donating. I'm sure this space will contain some account of the day by Nov. 13.

I'd like to thank some folks (again) for their help in getting me 40% of the way to my goal...so far:

- Ed Boucher
- Steve Bushey
- Val and Tim Trefts
- Scott Wakefield
- David Smith
- Lynne and Steve Cory
- Jon and Marie VanGuilder

Click here to donate:

I see the people, but I'm not sure it's a protest

While visiting a base where I was stationed in the 2002-2003 timeframe, Retired Army Gen. Tommy Franks said (and I’m sure he’s said it at other times too) – that we should, if we see a protestor, go and shake his hand…
…and then wink at his girlfriend, because she knows she’s dating a pussy.

I think he’s right. And I know he’s wrong.

We should shake the hand of protestors and we should thank them for their service to our country. In fact, I think if you ask most people in the military, they’ll agree that should the day ever come where people cannot peaceably protest in the United States, well, we’ve pretty much fucked up.

The part he’s wrong about then, of course, is the part about protestor’s being pussies. If we look back there have been some remarkable protests – from Rosa Parks' bus to college campuses, to Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, and Syria.

Probably the most notable protest photo I can ever remember seeing is from China’s Tiananmen Square in 1989 – that lone individual in front of a column of tanks.

Have you ever stood in front of a modern main battle tank? I have. It’s freaking awesome from only a couple meters away and I don’t think the photo really does justice to what that particular protestor saw. His entire field of vision was armor-plated. And the main gun on a tank – well, you can easily fit your arm down one.

And here’s the difference – the tank I stood in front of was British. While certainly it was on the ‘enemy’ side of the large scale exercise we were engaged in, I’m as sure as I’ve been about anything that it had no ammunition and that the crew inside it, when they turned the barrel of that monster toward me, had no intention other than making me wish I had a new set of drawers.

Let’s look at the Arab Spring protests – all those people were out there raising their voices when there was every chance – in fact history pointed in that direction – that they might be shot. Or at the very least jailed. Often it amounts to much the same thing.

And looking at these instances of people who are entirely brave and deserving of our respect, it’s almost embarrassing for me watching people take part in "Occupy Wherever" around the U.S. I almost have a hard time justifying the word ‘protestor’ when describing them. I think complainers or agitators or people-who-are-fed-up-but-not-sure-what-to-do-about-it, would be more appropriate.

People have the right to protest – but having a point would be in order. As it is, where people in other parts of the world run the very real risk of being shot, Occupy Wherever protestors mainly run the risk of their cell phone batteries dying.

It’s not nearly as inspiring. Not by a long shot. In fact, after a week, it looks more like people are doing it just to have something to write on their FaceBook pages. Maybe they’re hoping for a Kent State style government over-reaction to galvanize them (although it’s hard to imagine why they would and I certainly don't believe that to be the case). Maybe they’re hoping something will come up that they can grab onto with some conviction.

There’s a lot of talk about protestors being angry about corporate greed. If this is the case the writers at Saturday Night Live must be having a field day. The protest is a “social media-driven” protest according to many news sites. Nothing spells "stop corporate greed" like an almost implicit sponsorship by the likes of Verizon, AT&T, i-Phone. And it’s doubly laughable that so many of these people mourned the loss of Steve Jobs last week – while simultaneously protesting the 1% who are wealthy beyond a single person’s ability to spend.

Steve Jobs was no pauper. In 1986 he gave George Lucas $5 million dollars when he bought Pixar. He threw in another $5mil of his own to get it working. And 20 years later when he sold the company to Disney, it was for the tidy sum of $7.8 BILLION dollars. (Insert your own Dr. Evil impression here.) He was the single largest individual shareholder of Disney stock - by a lot.

Rich people are rich generally because they busted their asses and took chances most people wouldn’t take to get that way. Some are rich because daddy or mommy was rich. Well, that happens and there’s no use crying over it. If someone were to hand one of these folks (or me!) a briefcase with a million bucks, I think they'd probably take it and not look to pay any more taxes on it than they could reasonably help.

But, in the end, what I think these protestors are really looking for, is leadership.

They aren’t getting it from their elected representatives. And after a week, not one person has stepped up within the heaving mass of protestors to even try to give it a direction or some coherence - at least no one who has succeeded enough so that we've heard about it.

The reason, I think, is that most of thoe folks know deep down, that it’s not really that bad in America. The government isn’t rolling tanks up on Wall Street. They don’t have to worry about loony-tune dictators sending out the secret police to whack people who get out of line. They live in a country where they can protest peaceably if they want to – and it’s great they’re exercising that right.

But, and here’s a thought, why don’t they all exercise their right to vote. That’s where messages are sent. And I’ll even contribute something they can write on signs:

NEXT TIME – VOTE FOR SOMEONE ELSE.

It doesn’t matter who you vote for, or which party they belong to – just vote out the people who are in. We have the capacity to enforce our own term limits if we would all stop being such lemmings.

At the very least, the iPhone and Starbucks crowd currently gathered in U.S. cities should "Occupy A Point”. They should have one. A solid one.

What makes a solid point? I’d say the bar is set pretty high. If you want to be a real protestor, your point better be something strong enough where you’d be willing to stand in front of a loaded tank with a crew of unknown intention.

Then, I’d defy anyone to call you a pussy.

I'm Prepping for the Championships in Austria 2015

I’m no renaissance man and I’ve never tried to be. Hell, I had to look up how to spell renaissance so I’m not one to look to for advice on becoming a better person. But still, I realize, and I may have mentioned this before, that there comes a time in a man’s life where he realizes he’ll never play guitar in a band. (Unless of course, he actually does play guitar in a band).
So, knowing you’ll never have a job where random women throw their knickers at you, you have to readjust your mid-life bar. That is, you have to latch onto something that you think you may have a reasonable chance of achieving before you grow so old as to forget it all.

You want to be able to do something; to leave your mark; to have something to chat about while sipping your food and waiting for the spades tournament. At the very least, you want to do something that will annoy people now – while you can still enjoy being disruptive.

I believe I have found such a thing.

Of course, I can’t actually start doing it yet because of military rules which prohibit such things, but next year I think I may give it a shot. It will probably take a year or two before I can decide if it’s something I really want to commit myself too, but it meets all the pre-requisites I’ve set out for myself…

1. It has to be something obscenely easy and paradoxically difficult to achieve in a pure sense.

2. It has to be something that takes a long time – like baseball.

3. It needs to have no underlying value or point – again, like baseball.

4. It needs to be one of those things that my children, as they start to reach puberty, will walk away from in disgust if any of their friends takes even the slightest interest in.

5. It needs to be something I’m physically capable of doing.

6. It needs to be something I can do without sweating severely, or without injuring a major moving body part.

7. It would be best if I could do it sleeping.


I’ve decided, in short, to grow a beard.

Not just any little scrub beard or one of those silly beat-poet goatees that the coffee slurping crowd seem to favor, but a proper, full-blown, prize-winning beard.

It meets all the criteria listed above and there is a competitive element to it – and if you think I’m crazy, obviously you’ve been spending too much time using the internet to look at your facebook profile, because there's an entire culture in America dedicated to beards.

In fact, there is a World Beard and Moustache Championships. Yes, “world”. We’re not talking county fair stuff; we’re talking, carry in the red, white and blue, play the national anthem and line up the endorsement deals world championships.

Now, the timing on this is really excellent, because the 2011 championships are being held in Lancaster Pennsylvania this week – on Oct. 8. And the governing body of this group has already set up the 2015 championships to be held in Austria. The real Austria, in Europe, not some little town in Idaho or something.

This year’s event will be judged by Miss Pennsylvania; a former member of the Superbowl Champion (2009 version) Steelers – Justin Hartwig, who himself sports a rather mundane and conventional set of whiskers - and an as yet unnamed player from the Philadelphia Eagles. There are real beard-guy judges as well, and you need to check out there website because I cannot adequately describe judge Willi Chevalier. If you click on only one random link that you read this week, click on that or the Beard Team USA homepage.
This is not follicle fundamentals, but big time hirsute haberdashery we’re talking about. The guys who compete in this make Grizzly Adams look like Mr. Clean. And best of all, for a clean-shave guy like me, it really only takes time, imagination, two opposing chromosomes and the little bit of the genetic goodness that allows you to grow facial hair.
Time I’ll have when I leave big blue; chromosomes I can prove by presenting you with my offspring; and genetics…well, we’ll have to wait and see, but the three day stubble I currently sport provides a tantalizing glimpse at dreams that could be.

And as I get ready to start training next year, I’m going to hold off on those guitar lessons. No sense learning an instrument when I’d only just get my beard caught in the strings.

Getting a little air time on the bicycle

Wanting to do something a little different today, I loaded Kandy (My bike. It’s orange and black – hence Halloween, hence candy corn, ergo, Kandy. Yes, I’ve named my bike too – life just keeps getting sadder and sadder when you live on your own.) Anyway, I loaded Kandy onto the car and headed northwest of San Antonio to a place that has some very nice single-track bike paths. Flat Rock Ranch, in fact, boasts two trails – a shorter harder trail and a longer easier trail - at least that is what I was told. Naturally I chose the easier.

Let it be said now that ‘easier’ is one of those words that can mean lots of different things to different people. As I am a cycling neophyte of the highest order, easier to me means the trails I’ve been riding – fairly smooth dirt with the odd incline of no great moment. There was no ‘easier’ option at Flat Rock for me. Nor will there ever be.

The paths, you see, are very narrow and rocks abound. And today, for the first time, I realized exactly how much effort you need to spend taking in your surroundings while cycling … that is, if by surroundings you mean the three-10 feet directly in front of your handlebars – about the point on the ground your face would hit if you were to go flying over them. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve watched enough X-Games and TV shows that show youngsters with no regard for medical bills hurtling themselves through, over, and around various obstacles, rocks, trees and stuff to know, that they are just plain foolish. So imagine my surprise, while riding along I note that at some points on the trail, a balance wobble could send me bouncing down many, many, many feet of rock because the trail is about two feet wide with a ledge. (Not a deep ledge mind, but ledge enough that you need to pay attention to what’s going on in front of you.)

Now, you may laugh that I have named my bike as well as my apartments, but at Flat Rock Ranch, they name their hills – not the up hills, but the down hills. I noticed this as I huffed my way to the top of a hill and entered a switchback and caught a fleeting glimpse of a sign that said, “Rigie’s Canyon”.

It took me about 2 seconds to process the word ‘canyon’ and its potential implications to my truncated world-view at the time. Two seconds, it turns out, was too long as I found myself hurtling down a hill that I had no business hurtling down. Had I been given extra warning about the rock-strewn and tree-root infested half-pipe I was now careening down, I would have done the sensible thing and walked my bike down the hill.

Alas, I had no such warning and was pretty much along for the ride busying myself trying to keep Kandy as upright as possible.

I think this is a good point to discuss profanity. If you know me, you know I’m no stranger to a good bit of cussing. But never, and I think this bears repeating, never, have I just swore out loud with no person within acres of me just out of blind panic. Words I have not heard myself utter in decades came back to me like falling space debris – really fast and in bits and pieces – as I bounced along.

For all it’s grey-hair inducing qualities, however, I made two decisions when I reached the bottom of the hill alive and relatively intact. First, I thought, that was actually quite fun. Second, I thought, I’m never coming back to this place again.

I had originally intended to be on the trails for an hour, maybe 90 minutes. After two hours, I’d run out of water and a day that had started pleasantly in the low 70s was now into the 90s. I was still finding trail markers though, so I figured it wouldn’t be long.

Well into the third hour I got to see the “Evil Worm” which I noticed in plenty of time to walk down and I got to do something I hadn’t even considered when starting my ride. I got to fly.

That’s right, fly. Not far though. Early on in the ride I had a couple run-ins with large obstacles that stopped my bicycle’s forward motion but launched my prodigious girth right into my handlebars. My final act, however, involved no ground based obstacles at all. The path wound through the woods and right between two trees. (I’ve included the picture for you here).

It is realistic to think that if enough people have gone between these trees to have made a path, I should be able to do this. The ground was flat and thoughtfully devoid of large rocks and I had not yet entered a state of dehydration.

Well. You kind of know what’s coming don’t you? Kandy just kind of got stuck between the trees and at a fairly odd angle too it must be said. I had no such issues as I launched myself onto the path – and landed with my face just about the point I was looking at as I was riding.

I lay there on the ground for a moment, very happy for gloves and my helmet, going through body functions like a pre-flight checklist.

Arms? Good.

Legs? Good.

Back? Miraculously, good.

Ego? Oh, hell, we haven’t seen that for hours at this point.

Lying on the ground I started to laugh because ultimately, the only reason I’m on a bicycle at all is because my doctor said running would hurt my knees. I thought this hugely funny as I picked bits of gravel out of myself and made my way out of the woods and down “Hospital Hill” to my car.

Spinning Class Works

I can’t prove it but I’m pretty sure the help wanted sign read something like this:
Help Wanted: Sadist. Must enjoy inflicting physical pain upon others while listening to upbeat music in a specially designed room and with equipment made specifically for the inducement of such pain. Should be able to take part in said pain yourself while maintaining the ability to talk, yell to those under your ‘care’ and do it all without looking like it bothers you. If you think you have what it takes, please enquire for the job of spin instructor.

Yup, that’s probably what it said. About two weeks ago I thought it would be a good idea to start taking spin classes – you know, where you go in a room with other people and sit on specially designed bicycles that don’t actually go anywhere and proceed to sweat all over them.

I did this for a couple reasons: first, if you haven’t gathered by now, I’m not really that bright; second, a very good friend of mine whom I’m going to call out by name, Riley McAlpine, is one of these minions of hell out in California and she’s told me on a number of occasions that “spinning is great; you’ll love it; it’s so much fun…” the same type of thing you’d expect to hear from a 3-inch imp sitting on your shoulder with a pitchfork talking in your ear. But Riley has actually ridden real bicycles across the whole bloody country a number of times, whereas I have grown doggedly tired looking at a map of the country. So I give her the benefit of all knowledge where biking is concerned.

And, as my primary form of aerobic activity is now biking anyway, I figured, why not? How bad could it possibly be?

Turns out that…it’s not too bad. In fact, Tuesdays and Thursday evenings now are kind of the highlight of my week – or at least what I look forward to the most rather than just sitting around BOB2.0 and hoping someone puts up a something humorous on FaceBook.

Spinning is torturous in that it’s a hard workout and you sweat buckets; but it’s not un-doable – and that’s the magic component that makes it work and makes it fun. There always seems to be a couple folks in class who make me look svelte and they come through it just fine. As far as I can determine, the defribulator on the wall has never once been used. If you’re not in great shape, you don’t spin as fast so it’s not like weight lifting where 100 pounds is a 100 pounds and you either lift it or you don’t. (I don’t)

If you’ve never been to one of these classes and are interested, what you have is essentially a stationary bicycle but much better and with a flywheel mechanism so if you think you want to stop pedaling and coast…you can’t; it keeps pedaling. The other big component on the bike is the knob that adjusts the tension. This knob is our instructor’s favorite thing – especially when turning it clockwise. So with a little upbeat music (Madonna works really well for this and I’m not entirely sure why) and an instructor who every 30 seconds laughs while telling you to pedal faster and turn the tension up, an hour-long workout flies right by.

The best thing about the class is that audience participation is not frowned upon. In fact, I think it’s nice that some people can actually get out sentences while the rest of us (me) are trying desperately to draw breath. A rather portly gent in my class talks nearly as much as the instructor – usually following up her demands for “two full turns to the right” by saying something witty and clever like, “You said left, yes? I don’t want to miss it if you said left…”

Ok, spin class isn’t a night at the Improv, but it’s a convivial atmosphere for a workout. And don’t misunderstand, it is a workout.

In the first 5 minutes of my first class I thought maybe I had gone into the wrong room. “Riley said this was hard…” I thought, “Maybe she’s just trying to make it seem harder because that’s her job…”

Forty-five minutes later, I had run out of water, had two sweat-soaked towels on my handlebars, and thigh muscles which were making promises about me walking funny the next day they were determined to keep. It’s plenty difficult.

But even after only half a dozen spin classes, the difference on a real bike ride is far from negligible. The pedal cadence is smoother and more consistent, the ride a little faster and, let’s face it, the ‘hills’ in spin class are far longer and steeper than anything I’m coming across in San Antonio.

In the end, I don’t know if my instructor or Riley think of themselves as sadistic cyclists or not, and truth be told I don’t really care because as ironic as it is, I think I may be getting somewhere in my quest for better fitness by sitting on bike going nowhere.



PS – Thanks so much to the following people who have already sponsored by bike ride for the Wounded Warrior Project which takes place Nov. 12.

If you are interested in sponsoring me on this ride, I’ve set a goal of $1,000. So far, thanks to the generosity of Lynne and Steve; Scott; Ed; and Jon and Marie, I’m already a quarter of the way to that goal.

If you’d like to help, please visit my donor homepage to learn more. The Wounded Warrior Project helps our veterans who have a lot bigger issues than losing a few pounds. If you can, please consider it. I would also consider it a favor if you could repost the site to your own FB page or send an email to your friends.

http://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=447736&lis=0&kntae447736=D37418DC04A240E58F94CC3521DDC2AA&supId=334307797

To learn more about the programs offered to wounded veterans through WWP, please visit:

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/programs.aspx
Thanks again.

28 People are Responsible for all Your Spam

You’ll have to excuse any abnormally large amount of spelling or grammatical errors this week. You see, I’m all a flush with excitement from an email I received from Mr. Solomon Johnson who has offered me the most singularly spectacular opportunity I have ever received from an unsolicited email.

Now, Sol – I’m going to call him Sol because he’s now my BFF – Sol understands that we all want to make a difference in the world and as a wealthy man (a $10.2 million fortune no less) he wants to not only help the less fortunate, but he wants to help me – and by helping me, help others even MORE, by allowing me access to his fortune (because he’s dying) to help the needy. Apparently dying people where Sol comes from can’t get access to their terrifyingly large wads of US currency.

So all I’ve got to do to earn this fortune is give Sol more information than I give to the US government to earn a security clearance. That sounds legitimate to me, I mean, you don’t just hand someone $10 mil without some information right? I mean, you have to turn over a great deal of personal information to get a driver’s license, so this is nothing. Bring on the giant check.

Fortunately, if you have enough brain activity to keep pumping oxygen into your body without conscious thought, you know that Sol is one of a myriad of scam artists who generally say they are from Africa (Nigeria is popular) and who, despite being enormously wealthy, cannot afford to hire someone to proof-read their email for simple English juxtaposition.

And if you’re reading this, I expect that you have a higher than average intellect and have probably asked yourself the same question I posit to you now… Who falls for this?

Well, as it turns out, enough people to keep this little scam going for something like 80+ years.

Yes, you read that right. This isn’t an invention of the internet age – but that’s a good place to start. According to ZDNET, spammers, on average, get one response for every 12.5 MILLION emails they send. This number is not made up apparently. It is the result of a study by researchers – probably researchers who sent 12.5 million emails until the US government answered one and gave them grant money. But I digress.

Anyway, after about 350 Million emails (one for every man, woman and child in the U.S. or thereabouts) they get 28 responses. This means that there are more than 2 dozen people in the U.S. at this very moment that are receiving and allegedly reading emails and who are clinically brain dead.

If you ever needed proof of the Zombie apocalypse, here it is. The Zombies are among us and they’re breeding. (In all likelihood, more prolifically than you or I)

Now the emails sent by Sol, are not stuff of well financed cyber criminals - the ones that use bogus web sites which look almost identical to actual bank sites and stuff. Thousands of people fall prey to those every year and they have my genuine sympathy. It’s not as if they’re guileless, just extremely unlucky. Like people who bought a LeCar. Ok, probably a bad example.

Sol, however is not alone in his perfidy. In 2002 – nearly 10 years ago when we were, as a nation, so much more innocent and gullible – the people running what is known as "the Nigerian scam" (like Sol’s letter) raked in $100 Million in the United States ... that we know about. (This bit of information is from a website everyone should have listed as a favorite called: http://www.snopes.com/ This site will help you determine the veracity of many urban legends and emails that you receive that start with the letters “FW:” in the subject line. Go to Snopes before forwarding emails. Please.)

So, in ‘02, Americans were bilked out of $100 mil and it wasn’t new even then. In fact, again according to Snopes, this type of ploy has been around since at LEAST the 1920s, when old fashioned paper was used and stamps were purchased and scammers could be discerned by copious paper cuts on their tongues. In the ‘20s, however, it was known as the “Spanish Prisoner” scam. The son of a fabulously wealthy Spaniard was jailed and they needed to raise money to get him out of a Spanish prison and they would pay you blah blah blah.

If we could just find the 28 people in question and take away their internet, you have to assume the emails would stop. There would be no point in sending emails asking for money if no one responded, right? But how do we find these people?

It’s urgent that we do find them because about 90% of the more than 2.8 million emails sent every SECOND, are spam – roughly the same percentage of junk mail I get in my real, paper post letter box.

So, here’s what I suggest. Everyone should send me their bank account data and passwords so I can do a full review and cross your names off my list of people who could potentially be answering these emails and thereby flooding all of our email boxes with junk.

After I receive all of this data, I’ll buy a small Caribbean island, a magnificent boat, and probably a sandwich because I’m sure I’ll be hungry by then; and I’ll put an end to spam once and for all by finding the 28 miscreants responsible for this mess.

If you need me before then, I’ll be hanging out with Sol.

Go fast + turn left = NASA

One of the really neat things about my job is that I get to meet or at least talk to some very interesting people. For instance, a few weeks ago I spent some time talking to a man who had flown on three space shuttle missions – and while speaking with him, I was looking at a photo of him taken from space with the Earth as a backdrop.

It was from this very smart person, a rocket scientist no less, that I learned one inviolate truth about the world we live in … we need to send some poets into space.

Ok, maybe not poets, but at least someone other than engineers. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all for engineers. They build cool stuff – like space ships. But I think they should be limited to designing and building them – they shouldn’t own the only set of keys to the things.
The reason I say this is because when I asked him what it was like – you know, being ‘in space’, he said the following:

“It’s pretty cool.”

Honestly, that quote isn’t entirely accurate. He didn’t actually say ‘it’s pretty’. He just said, “cool.”

I suppose a writer worth his salt would have asked an obvious follow up like, “how cool?” or “would you like to try again for those of us who aren’t high?” but I was just dumbstruck.

All I could think was, “Really? That’s all you’ve got? We spend millions of dollars to send you into space and you come back with, ‘cool’? You should be put in prison.”

But being a professional, I didn’t actually say this; I just thought about it for an extended period of time, mumbled something and hung up.

So, who is to blame? I mean, someone has to be held accountable don’t they?

The answer came to me as I stared at the phone. I thought about what it would really be like being up in space zooming around the planet and then – WHAM!

NASCAR. A space ship is nothing more than a 17,000 mph race car – it goes fast, flies in circles and requires the pilot to keep turning left. It’s obvious. You see, nuclear, electrical, aeronautical and mechanical engineers are all the people who work in the space program. They and the other ‘hard science’-type people need a way to blow off steam – you know, fling off the pocket protectors, unclip the bow ties and just really let loose. The space program is their reserve and they’re guarding it jealously. As soon as people find out what it’s really like, everyone will want to see it.

From the beginning of the space program up until June 2010 only 515 people world-wide have reached earth orbit. Only 24 – about the same number of people who go through the check-out at the grocery store while I’m waiting behind some blue haired old lady trying to find a penny in the bottom of her purse - have gone beyond low earth orbit and only a dozen have walked on the moon.

There are nearly 7 BILLION people on this planet and we can not only count the number of people who have been to space, but I’m sure with a little bit of research, I could find their names and nationalities. I know people with more FaceBook friends than the total number of people who have been in space.

But putting writers or artists into space doesn’t seem to be much of a priority, which is really an opportunity lost to bring some of the magic of spaceflight and really, the magic of what these engineers have created, to the significant portion of the population that aren’t rocket scientists.

Until NASA starts fitting artists with space suits, they should require engineer degree holding astronauts to take some additional classes. I would like to suggest the following:

- Creative Writing 101 - Describing what you see using at least four of your senses
- Your friends, adjectives and adverbs
- Colors and why people like them
- Bob Ross painting (I can totally see Bob Ross in space… “We’ll just add a little supernova off in the distance there to give it some color and depth. That’s nice.”)

Until we do these things, the 6,999,999,485 of us without access to space will just have to keep hoping space telescopes keep sending us back images that we can all look at and say, “cool.”

Giving Cajones-Credit Where It's Due

Today’s subject is a relatively new phenomenon in an America where it’s becoming increasingly obvious that more people need to find work and, quite frankly, it’s also a fairly disturbing sign of the impending apocalypse if you ask me. I’m talking of course, about bronies.


What is that you say? You’ve never heard of a brony? Please, allow me to elucidate but be forewarned, this is not for the faint of heart and quite possibly may in and of itself cause intestinal cramps. To simplify the explanation process, I will use an excerpt from a Wired.com article by Angela Watercutter from June 9, 2011...

          Each day, out-of-work computer programmer Luke Allen self-medicates by watching animated 
          ponies have magical adventures.


          The 32-year-old, who lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, loves his daily fix of My Little Pony
          Friendship Is Magic, and he’s not alone. He’s part of a growing group of “bronies” (“bro ponies”)
          — men who are fans of a TV show largely intended for a much younger audience.


          “First we can’t believe this show is so good, then we can’t believe we’ve become fans for life, then
          we can’t believe we’re walking down the pink aisle at Toys R Us or asking for the girl’s toy in our
          Happy Meal,” Allen said in an e-mail to Wired.com. “Then we can’t believe our friends haven’t
          seen it yet, then we can’t believe they’re becoming bronies too.”

I can’t believe I didn’t just throw up in my mouth a little bit.

I'd feel better if I thought Allen’s comments were written by a friend who discovered Allen had left his computer on after a debauched bender the previous evening and thought he’d have a little fun with his pal by making up outrageous claims of love and devotion to a three-inch high platic horse-like being.

The thought of Allen having friends who might go to bars or engage in anything not involving 20-sided dice seems remote at best, so most likely my party-like-a-rock-star theory won't hold up.

From a journalistic point of view, I’m not sure Watercutter needed to mention Allen was a computer programmer – or out of work. It just seems to fit somehow. The story doesn’t actually tell us whether or not he lives with his parents, but if I was a betting man, I’d take the over.

Now, I’m not indicting Allen and the bronies for their fascination with My Little Pony. I myself have, on occasion, walked “the pink aisle” at stores looking for just these very items. Keep in mind, however, that I have a 5-year old daughter and even she is starting to move on from the ponies – learning to read will do that for you.

No, what I guess I’m really indicting them for is actually admitting it to the general populace – that and the mutton-chop sideburns Allen is sporting in his photo for the Wired article.

Still, I’m not willing to revoke man-card privileges for bronies. Let's face it, you absolutely have to give them serious cajones-credit for admitting it in the first place. Brony-outing has to be considered the social equivalent of a 7th grader who lets everyone know he wets the bed.

Coming out as a brony, in short, takes some serious stones when the deck is already so clearly stacked against you.

So, inasmuch as I’m not a fan of most cartoons made after 1985 in the first place, it would be more likely that I would simultaneously win the lottery the same day I’m on the cover of a magazine as one of America’s 10 sexiest men, before I would ever watch (without my 5-year old daughter) an episode of My Little Pony – much less devote a good deal of discretionary time to following and building a fan base for the show and then going public with my devotion to same.

Despite all that, however, I have to admit, the idea of mutton chop sideburns…it’s kind of intriguing.

The Wounded Warrior Project bike ride - I need you

So, the other day I’m sitting around BOB 2.0 and not feeling particularly gracious toward anything on Netflix after having spent 85 minutes of my life watching “Zone Troopers” at the suggestion of my friend Jason. So, I was looking at cycling stuff and I made one of those rash, impetuous decisions that has become a hallmark of why things happen to me like they do.


I signed up to ride in an event called Soldier’s Ride San Antonio. It’s for a great cause – The Wounded Warrior Project – which provides wounded veterans assistance and helps them rehabilitate and get back on with their lives after being wounded in service to our nation.

The ride is one of those deals where a person who has never ridden more than 20 miles at a time (and that was today, by the way) gets people to donate money for them to ride a set distance. Now, a little research shows that the distance for these rides tends toward the 20-60 mile variety which, I can say without fear of reproach, will be a stretch for me, but well worth it considering the cause.

Basically my selling point is this, if you donate money you can rest assured I will be in no small amount of pain by the end of it – probably well before the end of it actually.

The good thing about this event is that whoever organizes these things made sure it was in mid November here in Texas. This does a couple things – first, it gives me time enough to prepare to the point where I can fool myself into thinking I’m in good enough shape to finish whatever the longest distance is they put in front of me – and second, it’s not going to be 110 degrees.

Like it was today. Ok, not really 110. I think the actual temperature was something like 103 or 104. But when you’ve never ridden 20 miles at a stretch before and it’s 103 it may as well be the eighth ring of hell. If you’re not familiar with that place, it is, according to Dante, where those involved in fraud and treachery hang out in the afterlife.

Rarely do you feel more of a fraud to yourself than when you’re 10 miles from your car, without a map (which goes without saying), wondering how much water you have left and discovering how those shorts with padding, while nice, don’t really compensate for not having an ass in the first place.

So, I’ve made the move and put my name down and now I just need to find some folks willing to throw some money my way – well, not my way specifically, but to the Wounded Warrior Project. Ideally, if I could get all 226 of my FB friends to kick in 10 bucks that would more than double the $1000 goal I’ve set for myself. But I’ll settle with whatever you can do and I’ll thank you for it because there are loads of good causes.

So, if you’d like to help a great cause, or perhaps you’d just like to see me on ass-crutches, please follow the link below. If you want to donate but don’t want your credit card information online, send me an email or respond to this blog or on my facebook site and I’ll send you my address. You can address a check to the Wounded Warrior Project and send it to me.

One last thing – please go to my FB site – I posted something there the other day and link my post to your facebook sites – or link this blog to your facebook sites – maybe you have a friend who has been looking for a way to help a vet.

Thanks for your support for America’s wounded veterans.

http://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=447736&lis=0&kntae447736=D37418DC04A240E58F94CC3521DDC2AA&supId=334307797

What's in a name? Depends if you're a Katherine or a Charo

As you know, I generally don’t post links here but I have to make an exception this time because you really need to see it for yourself.

Below is a link to a story I saw while looking up the word ‘catharsis’ used in a previous post. Yes, every now and then I go to Dictionary.com and look up words – more people should. Anyway, the story drew my interest because it was a story about names and a study done under the premise of what does your name say about your socio-economic status and education etc. (your best bet is to highlight the whole thing and paste it into your browser)
 http://hotword.dictionary.com/names/?__utma=1.464618247.1292379951.1304560770.1309136548.3&__utmb=1.4.9.1309136555625&__utmc=1&__utmx=-&__utmz=1.1309136548.3.1.utmcsr=(direct)utmccn=(direct)utmcmd=(none)&__utmv=-&__utmk=193397805

Of course, when I read something like this it inevitably devolves into me having a dozen open tabs on the internet and learning all kinds of junk I didn’t need or necessarily want to know – but as I now get to write about them, I know you’ll have wasted precious moments of your life as well and if I’m going to waste hours of my life here in BOB-2.0 then it’s the least I can do to share the experience.

Anyway, a couple things in this story caught my eye: First, “Katherine” was the highest scoring name and, according to the story, “Katherine goes to a private school, statistically…”

This is great news for me because my daughter’s name is Katherine – and while I hope she goes to a good college, I also hope she wins the lottery or something because my name is Rosaire and while there isn’t a listing for my name in the story, I’m sure it would say something like this: ‘Rosaire’s are generally gender-confused by others who can’t physically see them and they display a disproportionate unwillingness to accept they might be wrong which leads most to be lucky to graduate from high school much less find meaningful employment which will allow them to pay for a daughter named Katherine.’ But that’s just a guess.

The article also mentions Sierra and Dakota. Apparently, again according to the article and not me so don’t send your hate mail my way – Sierra and Dakota don’t go to college.

Well, duh! Gather a group of men over the age of, oh, 17, and ask them what Sierra and Dakota do for work – go ahead, I’ll wait – I’m going to tell you what they’ll say, they’ll tell you that Sierra and Dakota are strippers.

Those are stripper names – like Moonlight or Destiny - and it makes me laugh every time I see it – usually on a reality TV show. The father has got to know this isn’t a good thing and I think he should be obligated to say something - unless it's a family name (!) To my mind it’s the equivalent of naming your son Dipthong or Mortimer.

No, names don’t dictate what we become and the whole study is really rubbish, but if you think about it, how many Rachels do you know who are unattractive? Probably some, sure, but usually, Rachel pans out pretty well. And I don’t know their names but it also seems that an overwhelming majority of women who drive VW convertibles with the tops down – are (or were) attractive women. It’s not a dead certainty, no, but do a study of your own sometime.

Now, you may be thinking, ‘hold the boat here boss, what’s your name and what gives you the right to talk about what other people are naming their kids?’

Well, having a name like mine is exactly what gives me that right. I did not name myself Rosaire, but still, according to my mother I was very nearly Jeffrey – and truth be told, I’m much happier with Rosaire - it's a great conversation starter and has served me well in the past in that capacity.

But there are precious few of us around. In fact, according to another site that purports to use Social Security card application data, there have been exactly zero Rosaire’s since 1998 in this great land of ours. At the same time there have been 26 young men named Josephus and 219 named Horatio. So, statistically speaking, I am a Mortimer.

And while I know of a number of Rosaire’s out there – some of which aren’t even related to me, I do take a little umbrage at the fact that most sites classify my name as a female name, despite the fact I have never seen or heard of a female Rosaire before. Every Rosaire I know alive or dead is or was a male-gendered individual.

And while I’m on the trail of umbrage, here’s the real felony of it all – if you were to believe these sites, even though I don’t know what kind of job or education I’m supposed to have, apparently the nickname for Rosaire isn't 'Roe' or 'Rosey' at all - it is, of all things, Charo.

I think I’d prefer Mortimer.

A new bike and a potential world of gear

My new bicycle came in a week early and when I got the phone call yesterday I was pretty stoked. I’ve never been excited by the prospect of cycling before, but I’ve never been told I shouldn’t run anymore before either, so it works out nicely.

When I went to the shop (Action Bicycles in Universal City, Texas if you’re in the area) I had a few minutes to kill looking around and I was amazed at the amount of gear you can get with a bike. Then a voice in my head went off repeating a mantra you hear often amongst the British military, usually while talking about Americans – “All the gear and no idea.”

The fact the voice in my head was the Shadow’s voice should really come as no surprise to any but the first-time reader of this blog, but it did and it was her way of telling me from thousands of miles away to step away from the credit card.

But still it was fun to look – there is just all kinds of cool stuff from bike computers to tool kits to bags and pumps, lights and shirts, tires and levers and switches and…it was just candy-store like.

Still, I didn’t buy anything and today I went for my first ride. I already had a helmet and those gloves with no fingers (which really shouldn’t be considered an option if you enjoy your skin) and so with a song in my heart I found a park with miles and miles of trails. Not serious mountain biking trails with water obstacles and hills and stuff, but single-track trails that are plenty challenging when you’re 40 pounds of belly fat from where you need to be and haven’t ridden a bicycle with any alacrity since you were 6 when your bike’s banana seat matched those dangly things that were stuck into the handlebars. (You know what I’m talking about. You’re the guy who used to turn them like they were keys to start the bike – go ahead, admit it.)

Anyway, I’ve got pretty much everything I need except music but that’s not a big deal because it’s nice just to hear whatever noise it is you’re making or that nature makes sometimes. My phone has an app that will tell me how slow I’m going and how much distance I’ll cover and I’m pretty much set.

What I didn’t have, and again, if you’ve read this with any regularity you’ll not be surprised, what I didn’t have was any type of map. I figured I’d just follow trails until I came out of the woods again. That’s a great idea – if you’re an experienced rider who happened to bring any type of food substance with him. Not so good if it’s your first ride and you know in the back of your head there is the distinct possibility there could be walking involved. And swearing.



The camera in my phone isn't
great - trust me there are deer there.



About 40 minutes into the ride I heard an odd noise – that would be my phone. I have perhaps one of the nation’s least expansive phone systems and here in the middle of a very large treed space I was getting a call from the Shadow. Her timing, as ever, was impeccable because at that very spot where I stopped, not 30 feet away, were 4 deer – a mother and 3 fawns and they were just kind of standing there wanting to run away but knowing somewhere in their animal brains that I represented no threat whatsoever to anything other than perhaps myself. So we stared at each other for a while and then I carried on with my ride.

You don’t get to see that kind of thing as often when you’re running – usually because you’re too busy breathing or trying not to trip over tree routes or whatever, so it was a nice way to begin my relationship with my orange bike. It didn’t hurt that I found my way out of the woods fairly soon thereafter and didn’t have to consider which fingers I’d gnaw off first if it came to it.

When it was all done I’d ridden about 7-8 miles or so – not a huge distance by any means but it took an hour so the exercise was there and that’s really the point anyway.

Now as I write this, it’s several hours later and as I think about my visit to the bike shop yesterday, I realize one really important fact you would all do well to take note of should you embark upon a cycling as a way of getting/staying fit: as important as those gloves are, you’d do well to spend your first bit of cash on padded cycling shorts.