That'll do it, folks

Alright, I'll break the silence. I know it's been a couple weeks since my last post, and I assume you all know what's coming: I'm done.

It's been a heck of ride, writing columns here on rockmitchell.blogspot.com. Funny columns, stupid columns, confusing columns, offensive columns... Now it's time for the last type of column: the terminating column. The clincher. The closer.

It lasted longer than I thought it would, to tell you the truth. Looking at my stats I put up a hearty 86 posts, the first one going up on March 12, 2008. Also, 7,200 people visited this site, although 6,000 were probably lost deep in the Internet when they stumbled in. "What the hell kind of a blog is this?"

I thought blogging was pretty dumb, before I started. And I often thought it was dumb while I did it. But you've got to love what the Internets come up with these days, and the blogging platform--where any idiot can publish their words for the world to see--is something novel.

Well, I've written what I've wanted to write on this blog. Now it's time for me to chase other pursuits. Maybe I'll take up Twitter. Maybe I'll start a blog about what Michelle Obama is wearing these days. Maybe I'll see if AARP The Magazine is looking for any under-age columnists.

Whatever I do, this thing will just sit dormant. So consider this blog for sale. I checked out WebsiteOutlook.com, and it said this website is worth a whopping $876. WebsiteOutlook must be run by the same people that price out theme-park food, because it just ain't worth that much.

Tell you what. Offer me $10 and a cold ginger ale, and you've got yourself a deal. Actually, I'd let it go for just a ginger ale--warm or cold.

Thanks everyone!

I took the trash out and almost went with it

Listen up, men with a girlfriend or wife: never, ever, ever criticize your significant other's outfit. If you have anything less than positive to say about something she's wearing, punch yourself in the head before you open your dumb yap. With any luck, it will alter what comes out for the better.

Yesterday my wife had to leave for a hair appointment. The trash needed taken out (it has always been my job to take out the trash; probably because I relate to it more than she does), so I followed her out the door on her way to the car.

As she walked away, I asked--and this is where I should have punched myself in the head--"Are you going to wear those pants?" I don't know what I was thinking; the pants looked fine, I just hadn't seen them before. Let's just say it wasn't the time or the place for such a critique. She drove off, probably furious for having married such an idiot.

As I stood in the middle of our condo's parking lot, feeling like a jerk, I realized the door was locked and I didn't have the house keys. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, and I hadn't showered or shaved. An October chill was in the air, and I was just wearing pajama pants, a t-shirt, and flip flops.

To make matters worse, right before I followed my wife out the door I had thrown a burger on the George Foreman grill. It was going to be more than well done.

I decided to go sit in my car and wait it out--I'd let the burger turn into jerky. I sat in the driver's seat for about 15 minutes, wishing I knew how to hot-wire a car so I could at least have the radio for comfort. Luckily I found a tin of mints in the center console, and found solace in them.

Then I started to wonder how long a hair appointment normally lasts. An hour? Two hours? A day? (Note: I've rocked a buzz cut for the past three years, so I have no idea how long it takes to cut hair when scissors are involved.)

Deciding I needed to do something about my situation, I got out of the car and walked back up to the front door. I thought about going in a window, but we live on the third floor. And flip flops aren't great for scaling the side of a building. A mishap would mean an 18-foot fall.

I started knocking on neighbor's doors. A nice couple that lives across from us was home and took me in. They let me watch TV in their living room, in all of my just-got-out-of-bed glory, until my wife got home. Luckily there was enough love in her heart to let me back in the house.

I like to think that I've learned a few lessons from this experience; 1.) A burger is no good after an hour and a half on the Foreman, 2.) Shower and get dressed in the morning, even if you're not going anywhere, 3.) Say nothing but complimentary things to your wife--and be extra kind because without her you're nothing more than the trash you just took out.

Anything can happen at Walmart

If my printer were a vehicle, it would be a big-ol' SUV. It seems like it slurps up about a cartridge of ink for every 10 pages of print. For that reason, I stopped by Walmart the other day for a new ink cartridge.

After getting the ink, I made the usual rounds: $5 DVD shelf, fish tanks, BMX bike display, etc. At last I ended up in the produce section, where I began picking out some grapes. Just as I found a firm variety, an old lady came up and grabbed me by the elbow.

"I'm not sure about something," she stammered, while leading me to the broccoli stand. I was wearing shorts and flip flops, so she couldn't have mistaken me for a store clerk. Nonetheless, she pointed to a sign that said "$.99 ea," then proceeded to orate a 2-minute lecture on why broccoli should be sold by the pound, not by the unit.

I had to nod repeatedly and slowly walk backwards until the lady forgot she was talking to me.

Certainly crazier things have happened at Wally's Mart, though. When I was a teen, my younger brother and I got in a full-fledged fist fight over who's turn it was to play the Nintendo 64 that was on display. I eventually dropped him with a knee to the soft part of his thigh and regained command of the controller.

I'm also fond of the time I got recruited by a scammer at the $5 DVD stand. I was standing there looking for something that wasn't an old box-office flop when I noticed a guy start to sidle up next to me. I continued to scan the titles, with him breathing over my shoulder, until eventually he spoke up. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

I looked at him, and said "No, I don't think so." He replied, "Oh, you look familiar. Well anyway, what do you do for work?" Confused and surprised, I told him I operated "heavy equipment" (little did he know I was referring to my 4-cylinder car out in the parking lot).

He said that sounded cool, then chirped up, "What if I could help you make 10 thou a month by working just 20 hours a week?" I told him I wouldn't wander Walmart to Walmart, preying on people at the $5 DVD stands, for any amount of money.

A lot of people don't like to shop at Walmart because of incidents like the ones I've mentioned. And some people say a few of the folks that shop there are too--what's the word--peculiar? (peopleofwalmart.com) As for me, those are the very things that keep me coming back.

The Challenge

Had a little chat with my wife tonight... I have a new goal that I wanted to discuss, and hopefully get her approval on. As many of you know, she's with child. Assuming a normal pregnancy, she has 24 weeks left. So just under two trimesters to go.

OK, enough pregnancy talk. My goal is to keep up with my wife's pregnancy weight, pound for pound. A credible source tells me that the average woman should gain about a pound a week during the final two trimesters.

So... can I gain 24 pounds by the time the baby arrives?

Wait, before you answer that question you need to understand my body type. I'm 6'1" and I currently sit at a buck fifty-five. Been at that mark a long time, too. I've got the metabolism of a chipmunk and the build of a greyhound (the dog, not the bus).

Also, I will make the attempt without supplements, pills, or protein shakes. Save the creatine for high school jocks. I'm a man of the land, and I'll be consuming meat, potatoes, and country grits.

Surprisingly enough my wife said she doesn't care if I make the attempt, just because she doesn't think I can do it. What do you think? Feel free to cast your vote in the sidebar.

Goodbye old friend; hello repo

I parted ways with an old friend last week. We met On-line, just over five years ago. In our time together things didn't always go smoothly. But we had to learn to get along, considering we spent time together every day. We traveled together, ran errands together, and got our pockets rifled by the same sleazy mechanics.

I think everyone loves their first car, whether it's a piece of crap or not. If it moves, it can get you to the local burger joint. If it has a passenger seat, well, it's a whole lot better than picking up a date in your mom's minivan.

I think everyone cherishes the memories of their first car.

Once I thought the time with my first car was going to be cut very short. I had just bought the thing, and shortly thereafter moved into my new apartment at college. I normally kept my car parked in the lot behind my apartment complex, and I could see it from my window.

One morning I woke up, and it was gone. I ran outside and searched up and down the neighborhood. I ran back inside and checked my roommates' bedrooms, thinking maybe one of them took it for a late-night joy ride and ended up parking it in a canal, or something. But they were all cuddled up in their beds, sleeping like slugs.

With no other options, I called the police. Just as I was talking to an officer, the receptors of my brain finally connected; I had parked my car on campus the night before. "Sounds like someone had too much to drink last night," the officer stated. I certainly wished I could blame my stupidity on strong drink.

I'm glad my car never got stolen. It had a full future with me, lying in wait. It would take me and my roommates to the Mexican border so we could buy fake Oakley sunglasses. It would rear end some dude's car on University Avenue. It was going to take me on a first date with my future wife... and apparently my car and I did enough to make me look like husband material.

I passed my car onto my younger brother a few days ago. I always wanted to drive it till its dying day, and sometimes it seemed like it was almost there, but now that honor is left to him.

My new ride is a bank repo, at least that's what struck my eye when I looked at the Carfax report. Since my new car came from an owner that told the bank to stick it, it must be plenty rebellious at heart. We should get along just fine...

It takes time to absorb big news

It was a normal day. I had just gotten home from work and I was walking into the kitchen. There on the table sat one of those little pregnancy timeline discs, showing important dates at each trimester.

Many things go through a man's head when his wife tells him she's pregnant (although I'm sure many more things go through a man's head when it's not his wife). Here's what went through my mind, in order of occurrence:

"_______ (brain lapse; 4-5 seconds)."
"Wow, cool...."
"No, not cool. How can I get out of this? Is this reversible?"
"Actually, having a kid could be really cool."
"I wonder if she's going to let herself go."
"Oh crap, I'm not ready to be a dad!"
"She's going to make me paint the second bedroom like an Easter egg."
"Wow, I'll be a dad!"

A woman can only stand silence for so long after she bears that kind of news. Eventually a man has actually got to say something. All I came up with was, "How do you know it's mine?" Women aren't really looking for a joke at a time like that, I found.

Women just take the news of pregnancy a lot more favorably than men. Which shouldn't surprise anyone. For example, men take the news of a hot-dog eating contest winner more favorably than women: "Cool!" vs. "Eew, gross."

Pregnant women are excited about staring their new role as a mother, e.g., buying children's clothes, rocking a baby to sleep, and reading nursery rhymes. Guys, however, are worried about losing their comfortable role as an idiot. As a father, can I still paint-up my bare chest and go to football games? Can I still watch Rocky I through IV all in one day, once a year? Can I still, well... you get the point.

I hardly know a thing about pregnancy, but so far I know that women are either really hot or really cold after they first get pregnant. And that changes on the second--not on the minute or hour like with un-pregnant women. I'm either being ordered to crank on the A/C or to bring out the space heater. Sometimes they want both going at the same time.

I also know they can hurl at any moment. And what makes them nauseous is as elusive as what makes them hot or cold. One day it's the smell of butter. Then it's the interior of a car. Next it's the look of my toenails.

It's all fun though; part of life's journey. Your beautiful wife goes through all that, then in a matter of months you're rewarded with a mini version of yourself. Except the little guy/gal will have some of the wife's genes, so it's bound to be an upgraded version--thank goodness.

How long should we mourn celebrities?

Look, I'm all for being sad about someone dying. When a loved one passes on, mourning is expected and called for. Same goes for a respected leader or role model.

But what if it's someone you only know through pop culture; someone who's house you were only invited in when you watched that episode of MTV's Cribs? What if it's someone who didn't know you, nor would they have wanted to? What type of mourning is expected of you when they die?

I'm talking about celebrities here. People that have done no more for humanity other than star in a couple films, hang out at oxygen bars, and sit courtside at Los Angeles Laker's games. One day they're found dead in a hotel room with a bottle of pills on the carpet, and suddenly they become nineteen times as famous as than they were the day before.

The TV networks then scramble to find a few photos of the dead celebrity that can be aired to the public. But that's difficult because the only photos they have are the ones that made the tabloids. Generally a DUI mugshot looks tacky when it's used in a eulogy slideshow on CNN.

Then we, the TV-watching or newspaper-reading public, have to suffer through endless questions raised by the media over the next three weeks: Is the celebs doctor at fault? What's going to happen to the celeb's illegitimate child? Which celebrities will attend the celebrity's funeral?

Eventually the controversy and the discussion dies down (no pun intended), and the funeral is finally had. Again, every major news network is roped into airing the funeral procession, then it's replayed several times over the next few days in case you only saw it twice.

It's unfortunate when a playboy bunny that ODs on pain killers gets more press than a life-long philanthropist that dies of a stroke. What's the saying? Live by the sword, die by the sword? Same goes with the flashbulb, I guess.

My worst enemy dwells in my car

My greatest enemy is not the state's safety & emissions test (but it is a close second, since it has conquered me and my car every year for the past three years). And my greatest fear is not fear itself; as much as Mandela suggests. My greatest enemy and my greatest fear is actually the spider.

Spiders scare the heck out of me, and just writing the word gives me the hebejebes. Give me snakes, scorpions, or socialists, just don't give me spiders.

A couple weeks ago my wife and I had pulled into the church parking lot. After I put the car in park my wife suddenly stiffened against the back of her seat and her face went blank, like she was staring at death's door. I'd try something like that as well, to get out of church, but she had real fear in her eyes. "Oh my gosh!" she yelled, pointing at the dash above my steering wheel.

There, perched above my speedometer, sat a spider the size of a small frog. In one fluid motion I flung open my door and army rolled out onto the pavement. My wife then made a few attempts to get it out of the car with an ice scraper, but that only made it retreat into the air vent.

I've been driving on pins and needles ever since, not sure when the spider would make another appearance. If texting while driving increases your chance of an accident ten times, I bet seeing a spider in your car while driving increases it a thousand. So I've been hoping it wouldn't rear it's ugly face when I'm doing 75 on the freeway

Well, last Wednesday I was running a bit late for work. I bounded down the stairs from my condo and hopped into my car, trying to make up time where I could. As I turned the ignition and backed out of my parking spot, cranking the steering wheel like crazy, I felt a stringy substance cross the back of my hands.

I looked down and saw the last thing I wanted to see: a giant spider, dangling above my knees. My hands had just mauled the web it had worked up overnight. In the heat of the moment I duplicated the move I made in the church parking lot, weeks earlier. Only this time I had to get my car into park before the army roll onto the parking lot was made.

As I knelt on the pavement with my heart threatening to pound out of my chest, I tried to figure out how I was going to get back in my car and on my way to work. I ran into the house and fetched a broom, and after a few minutes of gladiator-like battling I got the wretched thing out from under my steering wheel column.

I've got a re-inspection for the state safety & emissions test scheduled for later this week, after I get some brake thing replaced. I'd really like for the evil spider to crawl out onto the safety & emissions guy, while he's re-inspecting my car. It would be nice to have my first and second worst enemies meet, and see if the second is any good at the army roll.

A happy wife is sweeter than soda

A couple Sunday's ago my wife and I were taking an evening stroll through our neighborhood. I picked up an empty beer bottle on the side of the road. My wife scolded me to put it down, but I wanted to take it home.

I wasn't exactly doing a good turn by picking up litter, I just wanted to start working on my bottle collection. I then told my wife about a plan I had to start brewing and bottling my own soda. My plan was not well received, and she threatened death if I didn't put the bottle down. I argued my case until she gave in with an "OK, fine."

As my wife and I approach our third-year anniversary, I thought I'd pause for a moment and jot down the few things I've learned about women and marriage in that time. I know three years is child's play to some of you veterans, but sometimes rookies have good things to say...

First off, women don't like men to stay in their "caves." Men are naturally cavemen, not only in manner and eating habits, but also in how they deal with the day-to-day. Their cave is usually a hobby, an escape from the responsibilities of work and family life.

There are a lot of cave options out in the world; golfing, hunting, fist fighting, soda bottling, etc. Women hate all of them, but they can learn to deal with a few--as long as they don't become too time consuming and they don't prevent their man from bringing home the bacon.

Secondly, women are always lying.

• Example 1: "I made this casserole, but I don't think it's very good; you don't have to eat it if you don't want to." That's a lie.
• Example 2: "You don't have to get me anything for Valentine's Day." Another lie.

Thirdly, not only do women lie, they also expect men to read their mind.

• Example 1: If a man asks "Are you mad?", she'll respond with "No, I'm fine." That means she's mad, real mad. Just don't ask, "Why are you mad?" You're supposed to know why she's mad.
• Example 2: If a man asks "Honey, me and the guys are planning a road trip to Montana. Can I go?" She may reply with something like "Um, I guess so." In reality, the deal is not yet done and you don't yet have a valid passport. Go off to Montana on an "I guess so," and she'll curse your name the whole time you're gone.
  

Normally I would have taken an "OK, fine," and clung to that empty beer bottle, keeping alive the dream of bottling my own soda. But at that moment, I realized no bottle of homemade ginger-ale was worth my wife's discontent. I dropped the bottle into the nearest garbage can and walked on.

Now I just need to work on having more of those kinds of moments.

You're never too old for hand-me-downs

Sometimes I'm glad I didn't have an older brother. If I did, I know I would have never worn a new article of clothing. Nonetheless, my mom still trafficked most of my clothes down from older cousins or neighbors.

I'm sure my parent's thrift had a lot to do with that, but so did the way I treated my clothes. In less than half an hour of recess I could blow a hole in both the knees of my pants and have grasshopper guts on the front of my shirt. Buying me a new pair of Levi's would have been like giving a white suit to a chimney sweeper.

Now that I'm done growing, and so are the people I associate with, I don't see many hand-me-down exchanges. After childhood, if someone gives over a hand-me-down it's usually not because they got taller... it's because they got wider.

The other way to get a hand-me-down, though, is if the previous owner doesn't think it's in fashion anymore. That's where I come in.

A couple weeks ago my wife and I were visiting my wife's family. Her uncle was ready to get rid of a fine corduroy suit with leather elbow patches, and I was ready to acquire a fine corduroy suit--with leather elbow patches.

The thing is, I know it's a darn-good suit. It's been around for at least 25 years but is still holding up like a champ. Those suckers buying a suit down at Men's Wearhouse only know their suit has made it through a couple trips to the dressing room.

I suppose the biggest qualm people have about taking ownership of a hand-me-down or thrift store clothing item is not knowing where it's been. How do you think new clothes feel, not knowing where their wearers have been?

Whatever the case, I've never grown out of ruining my clothes (you should see me after a spaghetti dinner, I can give a white shirt polka-dots). But that's something I'm going to have to change. If I blow a hole in the knee of my "new" corduroy suit pants, I'll have to wait another 25 years before something that good shows up in my wife's uncle's closet again.

Things we shouldn't give up when we grow up

I sat through a city council meeting a little while ago, I was on assignment for my job. In such a meeting, or most any kind of meeting, it doesn't take long to realize that some people can be very boring.

In fact, while I was enduring the agenda, I started thinking about why it is that as we grow more mature, we also grow more boring. Adults in the workplace are like bread out of the bag; they go stale too quickly.

There are some particulars of childhood that--unfortunately--we grow out of. I think it would be good for human resource departments to look back at some programs enjoyed in elementary school, and consider implementing a few of them:

1. Yearbook signing. Sure, most full-time jobs don't have a summer break. But how great would it be if at the end of the second fiscal quarter co-workers met in the conference room to sign the back of each other's employee manual?

"Stay cool, Dean... work sucks but you don't!" or "You should have used up more sick days!"

2. Nap time. It's a no brainer. Nobody would object to rolling out a mat by their workstation at 2:00 PM and shutting off the lights for 15 or 20 minutes. If smoke breaks are OK, what's wrong with a nap break? But it seems only former presidents can nap on the job.

3. Show and tell. It would really improve employee relations if workers were able to bring something from home and show it to everyone in a formal setting. Granted, depending on employee makeup this may be risky; you don't want Deedee from mail services showing up with a bong. But it might be good for everyone if Chuck from accounting was able to bring in his tap dancing shoes and do a little jig.

4. Reading time. For HR manuals or policy guides that are never read, it might be a good idea to implement a time to gather together and take turns reading paragraphs. The lady from PR could help out anyone getting tripped up on big words like "harassment."

5. Last but not least, a shorter day. Start at 8:00 AM, but ring the quittin' bell at 3:00 PM. Just because you get older doesn't mean it's easier to stay put at a desk for another 2 hours.

How to slow down the fast-paced city life

I can only listen to country music when I'm driving alone--my wife won't let me listen to it when she's in the car. It's not just that she doesn't like country. It's her incessant fear that one day I'll turn out to be a hick, and I guess she thinks country music could increase that chance.

She grew up in a small town and didn't care for the 4-H guys. The dates she hated most were the ones where she was picked up in a camo-colored 4X4 with a gun rack on back. I'm from a small town as well, a farming town, and I used to drive an old truck. To most men where I'm from, a "car guy" is an oxymoron.

My married, male readers will understand that you've got to promise a lot of ridiculous things to get a girl to marry you (e.g., eat less fried chicken, stop wearing a particular shirt, quit cussing). Before we exchanged vows, my wife made me promise to always be a "car guy."

I actually didn't listen to country music growing up, in fact I currently like a lot of rap. And I drive a car. But now that I'm living in a faster-paced city environment, I've come to really enjoy the slower-paced lifestyle found in country music's lyrics.

So my wife putting the kibosh on that genre has been difficult. But, I've come up with other ways--that are harder for her to control--to get life down to a Willie Nelson pace:

1. Say "I'm going into town to get ____," when speaking of running any errand, even if you already live "in town" and are just walking to 7-Eleven for a churro.
2. Drive with the window down and your left elbow sticking out the door. Cowboys don't use A/C, and they drive with one hand on the steering wheel.
3. Use "'ol'" as a prefix whenever possible: "I'm heading down to ol' Buck's place to watch the game," or "I've got to stop by the ol' supermarket after work."
4. While driving, deploy the four-finger wave whenever you're passing someone heading in the other direction, especially at a 4-way stop. (If you don't know what that wave is, click here)
   
5. When talking about any automobile that isn't a Ford, Chevy, or GMC, use the term "foreign job."
   

I can do all those things and more from a car, so I'm still keeping the promise I made to my wife. You can take a guy out of the small town, but maybe you can't take the small town out of a guy.

I don't mind a little pesticide on my apples

I grew up in a house bordering several potato, wheat, and sugar beet fields. In the summer months the whine of a crop duster often filled the sky. It was those moments when my brother and I would hop on our bikes and ride along the canal bank to get a better look.

The guy in the crop duster was named Chuck, and he lived across the street from us. He was kind of an old grouch (my brother and I's shenanigans often put us on bad terms with the neighbors), but we always did our best to try to get a wave from him as he swooped back and forth over the crops.

He usually just acknowledged us by spraying a load of insecticide our way, rather than bothering with a wave. While the stuff never smelled great, it did wonders for keeping mosquitoes off us for the next couple days.

A lot of people nowadays would freak at their kids riding their bikes behind crop dusters. Heck, a lot of people nowadays freak at their kids eating a carrot from soil boosted by Miracle-Gro. I have no qualms about non-organic food, though. Then again, I have no qualms about eating food off the floor.

I read the other day that organic food is the fastest growing sector in the American food marketplace (I guess Hostess Cake food has finally been bumped from first place). Apparently Americans are turning a new leaf on their eating habits.

I just don't see myself following the trend. The other day I was at the grocery store picking out some apples. I noticed a chic-looking lady next to me, picking out apples from the organic stand. She glanced over at me, thinking "enjoy eating rat poison." I glanced over at her, thinking "have fun paying double for smaller apples."

As you can probably guess, I went home with rat-poisoned apples and she went home with cow-manured apples. We'll both probably live healthy lives and, hopefully, die of old ages. I guess the fundamental difference is that she'll always see a crop duster as something to try to get away from, while I'll always see a crop duster as something to try to get a wave from.

My "Breaking 5" blog is flourishing

If you haven't been over to www.breaking5.blogspot.com lately, you're missing out. Posts are popping up almost daily.

I'm chopping down the 4:59-minute mile one swing at a time. Read about my latest progress here.

Who needs energy bars when you've got donuts?

What's the best way to negate the benefits of a 20-mile bike race? Eat a bunch of donuts while doing it.

Saturday morning I competed in the second annual Tour de Donut, a grueling race against speed and appetite. The details of the race are as follows:

• Bike a 6.5-mile lap
  
• Eat donuts
  
• Bike a 6.5-mile lap
• Eat donuts
• Bike a 6.5-mile lap

Each donut you wolf down takes three minutes off your overall time, so there's an incentive to spend plenty of time eating donuts before hitting the road for the second and third laps.

I felt a little out of place, upon arriving at the race site to register. While most riders donned flashy jerseys, spandex shorts, and click-in shoes, I had on a t-shirt, basketball shorts, and an old pair of Nike's.

As we lined up I noticed most everyone had sleek racing bikes made of toothpick frames. I had a full-suspension mountain bike that I picked up at a yard sale last year. Picture a bunch of gazelles lining up to race an old jeep.

I hadn't ridden my bike for over a month, and that was just to go to the grocery store for some soda. But then again, it's an event with donuts--the "real" bikers are practically asking for idiots like me to crash their race.

I trudged my way through the first lap, then quickly polished off four donuts. They actually went down pretty easy. With sticky hands I was off for lap two.

My second trip to the donut table wasn't as enjoyable. After I shoved the fifth one in my mouth I had no desire to continue. I guess it was at that point that the same spirit which moves Lance Armstrong to go stronger came upon me: I hunkered down and kept eating.

I found a couple tactics handy: one was the donut sandwich, where you smash two or more donuts on top of each other to eat at the same time; the second was water logging, where you keep squirting water in your mouth while you're munching on your donut.

Having pounded my ninth donut, I took to the course and trucked my way through the final lap. There's a special feeling when you cross the finish line of a race, but it's even more special when you do it with icing on your face and a belly full of donuts.

Just for kicks I looked up a calorie calculator when I got home, and I probably burned 1,000 calories during the race. However, the donuts totaled 1,980 calories. Ultimately, it was the donuts that came out on top.

Check out my new blog!

The blog is called "Breaking the 5-Minute Mile," and the URL is breaking5.blogspot.com. If you enjoy the "Rocky" movies, you'll love this new blog.

Holding off on the A/C

http://www.bellsouthpwp.net/k/g/kgoss17/fan2.jpg

I like to fully enjoy the change in seasons--inside as well as out. So come summer time, I hold off on the air conditioner as long as possible. I usually don't turn it on until the paint on the wall starts to drip or my wife threatens to check into a hotel.

Same goes with the heater, in the winter. I'm not wanting to crank it on until we start waking up to frost on our pillowcases

It seems that in a woman's perfect world, we should all be like chicken eggs; incubated at a steady temperature.

But relying on conditioned air is a sign of weakness, in my view, because humans can adjust to whatever environment surrounds them. Our body temperature is fixed at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit--whether the A/C is on or not. At least that's one ball of logic I throw my wife's way.

So rather than try to change the inside temperature of our house, I prefer to take time to adapt.

Sure, dealing with a hot house takes some acclimatization. Clothes and blankets turn superfluous, while popsicles and ice cream become worth their weight in gold.

And dealing with a cold house has its struggles.

When watching a movie, you can't leave any appendages outside of the cuddling blanket without suffering minor frost bite. And when you exit the shower, you've got to shake off like a cat out of water before early stages of hypothermia set in.

A cold house has it's benefits, though. When it's really cold in the house, my wife has an unusual urge to be around the stove. Food naturally results from that, time to time.

I take pride in our low utility bills, too. I'm pretty sure that in February the gas bill for our little condo was less than the gas company's cost in metering, paper handling, and postage. There's nothing like stickin' it to the utility company.

If anything, having a house with an uncomfortable inside temperature makes going to places with a comfortable inside temperature--like church and work--more enjoyable.

My car spent a night in the slammer

If 7-Eleven didn't sale Slurpees, I'd be wishing Chapter 11 bankruptcy on them. They're just too dang uptight about parking.

The other day I met my boss at a nearby convenience store. We were car pooling, and my car was left behind in the parking lot. Little did I know, 7-Eleven has a deal with the devil on parking; the devil in this case being Discount Towing.

Here's how it works: Discount Towing drives around arbitrarily, keeping tabs on how long cars are parked in the various locations they oversee. When a car has been vacated longer than it should take for someone to go inside for a Coke and a churro, they make their move.

Hence, when I came back to 7-Eleven to get my car two hours later, it was gone. I found Discount Towing's phone number on the side of the building, then called and asked the weasel that answered where my car was.

Here's the gist of what I found out: my car was in an impound yard 13 miles away; I could get my car out that night, but I needed to bring $271, cash.

"So... why exactly are you called Discount Towing?" I asked, before ending the phone conversation. The crook didn't appreciate my sarcasm and hung up. Too bad he hadn't a clue who he was dealing with, i.e., one of the cheapest persons on earth.

My boss drove me to the impound yard, where I planned on negotiating the rate down (on the way there I called some other towing companies to see what they charged, and found I was getting raked over the coals).

Discount Towing was located in the shady part of town, not far from smoke shops, gentleman's clubs, and a KFC restaurant.

If you've never been to an impound yard, know that "prison yard" and "impound yard" have a lot more in common than just "yard." This dump had it all: rottweilers, barbed wire, mean guys that looked like they ate babies. What the attendants lacked in teeth they made up for in tattoos.

Negotiations with the crook didn't go well. In fact, I ticked Mr. Discount Towing right off. The thing that's tough about wheelin'-and-dealin' with a guy that has your car locked up is, well, he has your car. I eventually offered $190, but he wouldn't bend.

He was stuck at $271, cash, and I had no leverage. In one last attempt I asked if he wanted to arm wrestle for the car, and again, my sarcasm wasn't appreciated. Not even a little. I told him I'd be back in the morning for round two. I had to--I didn't have $271 on me.

I went home that night, without my car, and studied the state towing codes up and down. I found out what they could charge and what they couldn't. I was ready for round two.

I couldn't help but worry about my car, though. As mad as I made the crook, I figured he was out vandalizing my car that evening--rolling it over and slashing the tires. What worried me most was that I didn't lock my car when I left 7-Eleven (the door locks don't really work).

I started thinking of all the valuables I had in my car, but after listing them off in my mind (a pack of David sunflower seeds, a book on tape from the library, Altoids, a Sacajawea dollar) I returned to worrying about the slashed tires, rather than burglary.

I was back at the impound yard before noon the next day. After looking through the fencing and spotting my car, still in one piece, I marched confidently towards the crook's office. I had spent the morning talking to the folks at the DMV and the state tax commission, and I had a case.

With Eye of the Tiger playing in my head, I confronted the crook with everything I had. I even got him on the phone with a lady from the state. After all was said and done we settled at $163. Not a knockout, but still a win.

As I followed him to my car we passed a smashed circuit board (one of the many pieces of garbage scattered around the place) laying on the ground. I turned and joked "hey, that's my car stereo!" Again the crook was in no mood for small talk, especially since he could've had $190 the night before.

Analog TV, digital TV, there's nothing on either way

http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2007/05/30/300_tv2.jpg

I bet TV watching in the United States hit a record low yesterday, because 2.8 million homes woke up to blank screens. The national switch to all-digital broadcasting kicked in Friday at midnight.

Their TVs didn't have to go blank, though. For the past year or so the FCC has been telling folks that if they're picking up television over the airways, they'll need a converter box--at least if they want to keep watching This Old House beyond June 12.

But to most the people who are currently without any TV reception, a converter box holds the same meaning as a flux capacitor; they don't know where to get one and they wouldn't know how to work it if they did: www.baltimoresun.com/news/bal-md.dtv.

In 4th grade, my elementary school promoted a No TV Week. Dworshak Elementary was always pushing crap like that on us (e.g., Red Ribbon Week, Jump Rope for Health Week, Give the Cafeteria Food a Try Week).

If only the school had the ability to switch our TV feed from analog to digital. Such a switch would have cut me and my family off from television.

I grew up on rabbit ears (I'm talking about a TV anteanna, not my daily fare--people in Idaho know the ears are one part of a rabbit that's not good eatin'). We only had five channels to surf: 14 - PBS, 21-Spanish TV, 59 - NBC, 61 - ABC, and 63 - too fuzzy to tell.

Honestly, those 2 million folks without TV right now aren't missing much. My wife and I found ourselves up late last night, bored but not tired enough to go to bed. We turned on the telly and settled in on the couch.

We spent some time on Travel Channel's Ghost Busters, where this guy went into Jack the Ripper's old prison cell to conjure up ghosts. He sat in the dark for some five or six hours until he heard a radiator clink:

"Oh my gosh, did you hear that?! I've been sitting here for hours, asking the departed soul to speak to me, and then I heard this spooky noise. (The radiator clink is then played over and over.) I think he's upset!"

Then we made our way over to Discovery Channel's Cocaine Nation, where we learned about the one commodity that's keeping the nation's GDP from going completely into the gutter.

Soon bed started to sound a lot better than whatever was on.

As far as I'm concerned, I'd be fine joining those folks without a converter box. Another No TV Week might be kind of nice... as long as it's not during football season.

Evolution lapses on camping trips, Part 2

The first few miles were all smiles. We were tromping along a dirt path that I could have hiked in my sleep. After a while, we entered Orderville Canyon.

Orderville is a slot canyon, which according to Wikipedia, "is a narrow canyon, formed by the wear of water rushing through rock."

The first part of the canyon floor was all mud because a flash flood had torn through the night before. Despite collecting several inches of mud on the bottom of our feet, we were all still in high spirits.

Here's where I want to get back to the stupidity thing I addressed in Part 1. It's not that we weren't prepared--we certainly had everything we needed for the hike, we just didn't bother to bring what we had.

The first thing I'd like to address is our rations. While some had plenty to eat and drink in their packs, others had very little. Actually, Neanderthal #5 didn't even bring a pack. He carried a re-filled Gatorade bottle in his hand and a PBJ his back pocket. Neanderthal #10 went with two cans of Mountain Dew and a small bottle of water.

Also, as I mentioned earlier, we decided to leave the wetsuits behind. Well, about the time we got to the water section of the hike, where we had to start wading and swimming, a cold front came in.

The wind picked up and rain clouds covered the sun. Nonetheless, our jovial nature managed to carry us through the first few swims. But after an hour or so of plowing through 55-degree water in the bottom of a chilly canyon, it got really old really fast.

With everyone being hungry, dehydrated, and soaked in freezing water, it was every man for himself. If anger is a symptom of hypothermia, we all had it.

Funny movie quotes and jokes were replaced with death threats and grumblings. If someone biffed it in the water, their call for everyone to hold up was ignored. I'm pretty sure I remember someone asking for a handgun.

I remember thinking that if I fell in the water one more time it would definitely be my last fall. I was ready to give myself up as a sacrifice to Orderville.

Just as we were all reaching our limits, we came to the end of the hike. Orderville Canyon terminates at a visitor's point of Zion National Park. Thus, families with little kids and Chinese tourist watched ten men, on the brink of death, climb out of the river one by one.

It didn't help that many of us had our shirts off (some hiker we passed earlier on suggested we'd be warmer without them). Like zombies, we each stumbled onto the riverbed and fell down shivering.

Some of us looked dead and some looked incoherent. Some of us looked like we still had some evolution to go through.

Evolution lapses on camping trips, Part 1

I'm sure women are the driving force of mankind's progression. We men are just too stupid on our own; we have no internal check and balance to keep us on evolution's path.

The best place to realize this is a camp out. Get a bunch of guys together out in the wild, without female counterparts, and they immediately begin to degenerate.

Last weekend I noticed this phenomena when I went camping with a bunch of friends, all of whom are men. About a month earlier we started emailing each other about doing a big camping trip.

The first stirrings of stupidity came then, in the planning stages. Emails like this started to circulate among the ten of us:

Neanderthal 1: What do you say we plan a man-trip for some weekend?

Neanderthal 2: I'm down for something intense, or something casual. Just something where I can spit, swear, and not shower for a couple days.

Neanderthal 3: Here's what we do: head down to Zion National Park and camp on Friday. We'll eat some tin foil dinners, or whatever we kill with our bare hands. Then we hike Orderville Canyon on Saturday and drive home on Sunday. Boom, planned.

Neanderthal 4: There's a lot of water in Orderville Canyon, so we'll need wetsuits. The water down in the canyon will be freezing in May. Also, there could be flash floods.

Neanderthal 5: This is MANcation. We don't need tents, we don't need changes of underwear, and we don't need to plan.

Neanderthal 6: It's outings like this one where I wish I had some sleeveless Harley Davidson T-shirt.

Neanderthal 7: Hey, what do you wear under a wetsuit?

Neanderthal 8: Nothing.

Neanderthal 9: I don't think my wife wants me to go on this trip. She thinks I'll hurt myself being stupid.

Neanderthal 10: Stupid decisions are likely. Is it bad that my wife is not concerned for my safety? She either trusts me or wants me to get hurt. You pick.

With input like that, our trip to Zion National Park transpired. We arrived at our destination around 10 pm. Then we spent the next three hours, in the dark, looking for a place to camp.

We eventually settled in on a spot and began preparing for the next day's big hike by carbo-loading on Mountain Dew and Chips Ahoy. After a couple hours of sleep, we woke up and tried to cook some eggs and pancakes.

Luckily nobody could find the plasticware, so we got to eat breakfast with our bare hands. After breakfast we packed some PBJs and drove up to the get-out point of Orderville Canyon to begin our 13-mile descent into one of the Park's most treacherous slot canyons.

We had all rented wetsuits the day before, but it was sunny when we started out so we decided to leave them behind.

TO BE CONTINUED (next week)...

The Lone Ranger knows how to pack light

I recently spent some time chatting with my brother-in-law about a seven-day trip to China he'd just returned from. What impressed me most about his trip was that he took nothing more than a single carry-on bag.

The last time I caught a plane, I had to pay 15 bucks to check in my suitcase--at least if I wanted it to be on the same flight as mine. And then I had to deal with the baggage claim crowd. If I’m going to stare at a conveyor belt for a long time, I want it to be at Krispy Kreme, where doughnuts move along in front of you and not suitcases.

I’ve put some serious thought into packing lighter. Take packing, hauling around what is packed, and unpacking out of the traveling equation, and you’ve got a pretty enjoyable trip on your hands. Indeed, a suitcase is nothing more than a traveler’s ball and chain.

The next time I fly, I want to walk by the baggage check-in and give ‘em the bird.

There are definitely some obstacles to overcome in packing lighter, all of which are reasons why we're turning into pack horses:

For one, I can't wear the same shirt for more than a day (I haven't found a deodorant strong enough). Actually, I guess I can, but I'd need to be around people who have no regard for personal hygiene. And I just don’t travel with my old college roommates that often.

Then there’s the weather. Who knows if it will be too hot for pants or too cold for shorts? They do make pants that can be transformed into shorts by unzipping the bottom half of the legs. Those would be a good option, but my wife has veto power over all my clothes, and I think she'd exercise it in this case.

Probably the best way to pack light is to bring a little washboard and take a few minutes before bedtime to scrub down the clothes I wore that day. I'd just need to bring one pair of clothes to wear while the other dries out on the shower rack.

There are plenty of other obstacles (e.g., contact solution, swimsuits, neck pillows), but it can be done. I just think of the traveling cowboy: nothing more on the back of his saddle than a bedroll, a can of beans, and a rifle.

Those big, bad airlines probably thought people would simply accept the luggage fee. Not this lone ranger; he'll be checking his gun in for a washboard and firing back.

When do I get my honorary Ph.D.?

This past week Barack Obama received a Ph.D. from Notre Dame. Dolly Parton got one from the University of Tennessee. Here's the kicker: neither one of them did a dang bit of the university's coursework.

On top of that, they didn't even have to buy a textbook or take a test. President Obama never had to paint a football helmet gold. Dolly Parton never had to sing "Rocky Top Tennessee" after getting hazed into a sorority. It was just given to them.

Here's a list of a few other famous folks that picked up a degree like it was a doughnut at a complimentary breakfast:

• Tim Allen - Western Michigan University
• Bob Barker - Drury University
• George Foreman - Houston Graduate School of Theology
• Billy Joel - Syracuse University
• J.K. Rowling - Aberdeen University, Scotland
• Arnold Schwarzenegger - University of Wisconsin Superior
• Mike Tyson - Central Ohio State University

As masochistic as it may sound, I've thought about going on to graduate school a time or two. But then I think of, well..., going back to school, and any desire to do so is immediately extinguished. Walking back into homework just doesn't sound appealing. "Like a dog returning to its vomit," to quote Proverbs.

After seeing the above list of honorary degree recipients, I think their path to higher education is the way to go. Now I know what you're saying:

"You could never successfully host a game show for 35 years."

"You'll never pen a song that matches the likes of Uptown Girl or Piano Man."

"There's no way on this green earth you could write a book about Quidditch."

Maybe that's the case, but I think I could be a handy man (regardless of what my wife says). I also think I could invent something like a hamburger grill. Shoot, I could even be a boxer and take a bite out of some dude's ear.

Wikipedia says that a school giving someone an honorary degree "often derives benefits by association with the person in question." That may be a hard sale. I know that even my wife wouldn't give me an honorary degree, based off that criteria.

For now, I guess my marriage certificate is as close as I'll get to anything honorary.

The idiot and the parking lot

I took an IQ test last week. The format was a little different than the conventional test, but it still assessed my intelligence. Essentially, I'm as dumb as a dead carp.

I don't lock my car anymore. I figure that between the high-pitched whine that resonates when I accelerate and the rattling that kicks in once I apply the brakes, anyone that chooses to swipe my car will abandon it a quarter mile down the road.

So when I couldn't find my car in the airport parking-lot, I knew darn well nobody jacked the thing. Rather, I knew I had lost it.

I've certainly lost my car before at places like Walmart, Home Depot, and the parking lot outside my apartment complex. But an airport parking-lot is a different story. It's like all three of those combined.

The IQ test began as the park-n-ride shuttle approached the lot: find an object the size of a baby whale that I had parked 5 days earlier.

I had no clue which stop to get off at, so I just went with the first one. No problem, I thought. I'd just stroll up and down a few rows of cars and find my car in five minutes.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself disoriented, alone, and on the bridge of heat stroke on an asphalt sea of cars, none of which appeared to be mine. I'd hauled my luggage up and down countless rows of cars and had passed the mocking (at least he appeared to be) shuttle driver more than once.

In that asphalt sea, I was looking for my white whale. And there were a lot of look-a-likes. I'd see a white Honda and head for it, only to realize it didn't have a dent in the bumper from where my wife hit the pole of our carport.

Thirty minutes later, I switched my search from a random, scattered search to a more methodical strategy. I realized the only way to find my car was to start at the top, row 20, and zigzag back and forth down to row 1.

Fifty minutes later, my mouth parched, my face sunburned, and the wheels of my luggage ground down to stubs, I arrived on row 3. There sat my blasted car.

I may have felt like an idiot, but it sure felt good climbing into my car knowing I wasn't going to perish on the arid parking lot. As I accelerated out of that dreadful place, the whine and rattle of my car never sounded so good.

ROUNDTABLE

The author is out of town. Please enjoy this re-post (originally published on 3/22/08).

I've now been to roundtable... I'm not even old enough to rent a car, and yet I've been to roundtable. To say the least, it was a slap-in-the-face welcome to the boring world of adulthood.

For those of you who've grown up with parents involved in scouting, you may remember hearing them grumble under their breath about going to some horrendous meeting on a Thursday night. The second Thursday of the month, that is... always has been, always will be. Unless you end up in hell, then it'll be the second and fourth.

When I arrived at the meeting I saw a bigger crowd than I'd expected, all decked out in certified uniforms and neckerchiefs, mumbling to each other about the latest Klondike activity. There were basically three types of people in attendance:

1. The nice lady that serves faithfully as the troop's den mother. Always has a lot of fragile decorations in her house that you're not allowed to touch, but she's good for home-baked goodies.
2. The overly-cheerful guy that serves as the troop's scoutmaster. Dons a beard 90% of the time. Can rattle off at least 9 dutch-oven recipes upon request.3. The newly-called scout leaders that are wondering what wrong they've done to the world to deserve such punishment.
After a few opening announcements, a bona fide scouter stood up and called a person from the congregation to join him on stage. Apparently the chosen individual had completed "Wood Badge," a week-long training course for scout leaders. With his wife in hand, the prizewinner took an honorable walk to the front; he looked proud as a peacock when a new neckerchief was placed upon his shoulders. The awarder then announced, "we can't let him go without singing the Antelope Song!" In a flash the others in the congregation, who'd apparently completed Wood Badge also, stormed the stage and belted out the type of song that makes you want to slam your head against the nearest solid surface. They finished, there was an awkward moment of silence, and the meeting resumed.

I learned from roundtable that there is a pride cycle in the world of scouting. As an 11 or 12 year-old, it's neat to get badges and beads; when you're 17 or 18, it's not so great anymore. But when you become a middle-aged man, racking up badges suddenly becomes cool again.

I'd rather not tweet

It's hard to keep up with the latest, coolest thing. For instance, we still don't have a bagless vacuum or a toaster that fits bagels.

I also didn't have a Twitter account, until just last week. I don't really know why I registered for one. I guess I just thought that someday I may use it, so it would be a good idea to nail down the user name I wanted before it got taken.

For those of you who don't know, Twitter is like a blog, but each post must be under 140 characters. Each post must also contain one or more internet initialisms such as LOL, ROFL, or JK. If you're unsure how to use one in a sentence, just ask a 12-year old girl--or one of the Jonas Brothers--to send you a text.

Each post on Twitter is actually called a "tweet," which is a big reason I was so hesitant to open an account. As a man, I try to limit the number of times I use the word "tweet." It falls right in with "yay," "scrumptious," and "oodles."

The idea of each tweet (*shuddering*) is to give a quick update about what you are doing/thinking/wondering at the moment.

Even though I have an account, I haven't touched it since I set the dang thing up. And I don't intend to. Why? Well, here's an example of how a given day, say... a lazy Saturday, of me on Twitter would read:

8:10 a.m. - Didn't sleep in today. Instead I got up early so I could wander around the house.

9:33 a.m. - Aerating the soil in my houseplant pots. BTW, when will I have a yard and some real earth to till?

12:29 p.m. - Had a good church-ball game: 2 points, 3 fouls, and I made some guy swear. Dude shouldn't have tried to make a lay-up on me.

12:54 p.m. - Great shower. Skipped the soap and just went with water - LOL!

2:02 p.m. - Lunch at the local taco stand... went with the 1-pound Machaca burrito smothered in salsa verde. Now my stomach hurts like hell, but IDC.

3:31 p.m. - I'd like to get on Antiques Roadshow with some random piece of crap. I should start visiting more yard sales.

4:22 p.m. - Just ate a green Otter Pop. Should have gone with red.

4:28 p.m. - Just ate a red Otter Pop. Much better, IMO.

5:49 p.m. - Went to the dollar store, now I'm SFETE. Bag of cinnamon bears, tube of super glue, bottle of Mexican soda, and a mini radio all for just 4 bucks!

I think you get the idea. Not much there. I think I'll keep my energy focused on this blog, where my mindless drivel doesn't have to be capped at 140 characters.

Was it Britney Spears who sang "Smokin' In the Boys Room?"

It all happened unexpectedly: A long time ago my wife mentioned that she kind of liked Britney Spears' music; I recently found out she was coming to town; I got a good deal on tickets; Yada yada... Suddenly I'm a 25-year old guy walking into a Britney Spears concert.

There are a lot of places I never thought I'd end up in my lifetime--North Dakota, a NASCAR race, Denny's--and now a Britney Spears concert can be crossed off that list.

I wouldn't say I was excited about the whole thing, but I was somewhat curious. It's not every day you get to see a former Mickey Mouse Club all-star in person. However, once I got into the venue my curiosity quickly dissolved, and I wanted to get the heck out.

For one, my wife wasn't letting me make any sarcastic remarks. For instance, she got mad at me when I asked the usher if Jamie Lynn was going to be performing with Britney. The usher didn't think it was funny, either.

Secondly, crazy-pshyco-fanatic girls wearing shirts saying "Oops I did it again" and "Hit me baby one more time" were in full force. Hundreds and thousands of 'em. There weren't many guys there, and I told my wife I needed to leave because everyone would think I was some kind of pervert.

However, my concern quickly dissolved when the show started and the Pussycat Dolls, who opened for the concert, were on stage. That's when I saw some dude with binoculars, and he kind of took the cake on the whole creepy/pervert thing:

The show wasn't too bad; lotta theatrics, lights, dancers, and screaming fans. At halftime (technically it was intermission, but we were in an NBA Arena so I'll call it halftime) I headed for the men's restroom, to well, use the bathroom. I also wanted to hear some man-to-man urinal talk and find out how other guys in the place were handling the concert.

When I walked into the men's room it smelled heavily of marijuana smoke. THAT is how they were handling it.

I elected to skip out on sharing in on the high, and I went back out for the second half. More theatrics, more lights, more ear-drum deafening shrieks whenever Britney began to sing (and by sing, I mean lip-sync) a new song.

She sang a song while sitting in the handle of a giant umbrella, hung by the rafters. She sang a song while getting sawed in half by a magician, then came out of the box whole again. Etc, etc. And then it was all over.

Going to a Britney Spears concert is kind of like playing in the mud: it's entertaining enough while you're in it, but after you're done you feel like you need a shower. So as my wife and I walked back to our car after the concert, I was glad it was raining.

What happened to riding bikes?

When I was a kid, my bike was freedom.

For one, a bike provided unlimited options for fun. A popular game in my neighborhood was one wherein some kid was chosen to be on a bike, and everyone else was on foot. The chosen cyclist would then try to ride away from the pedestrians (a.k.a. foot soldiers), who were wielding broomsticks.

The goal of the foot soldiers was to lob a broom handle into the spokes of the rider's front wheel. The goal of the rider was to try to avoid eating the handlebars. When a foot soldier successfully wrecked the cyclist, he was awarded a turn on the bike (I know, the motivation seems idiotic, but it worked). The following embedded video will give you a general idea of the process:



We always talked my younger brother into letting us use his bike for that game; all we had to do was compliment his bike by saying it did the best front flips. He never seemed to mind that his bike was in constant need of an alignment.

Secondly, my bike could have been a tax write-off, had my paper route brought in enough money to merit filing income taxes. My bike was a moneymaker, and delivering newspapers on it was certainly more efficient than doing so on foot.

For instance, the time I threw a newspaper through the glass of someone's storm door I was able to make a quick get-a-way. Unfortunately, a newspaper thrown through glass is an object that can easily be traced back to the paperboy. That dang storm door equaled six weeks of wages.

Lastly, my bike was great for simply getting around. It was nice to not have to beg my parents for a ride into town; I could go buy crap from the the pet shop, the gas station, or the pawn shop on my own volition.

With all the freedom bikes gave us as kids, it's unfortunate that we abandon them so readily once we've got a car.

I bought a bike last fall from some stoned dude at a yard sale. He was also selling a lot of other stolen goods, but the bike was all I was interested in. It's actually a pretty nice bike; it has shocks and everything.

My goal this summer is to ride my bike more often, not just to reduce my carbon footprint (that line is for you, Al Gore), but to see if I can garner the feeling of freedom I once had as a young and reckless cyclist.

Two pets is one too many

"Surround yourself with people smarter than you," is a saying tossed around in the business world. However, at home people seem to prefer to surround themselves with those of lesser intelligence.

At least that's my philosophy on why people have pets. We naturally like to be the ruler of someone or something, and getting a pet is one of the quickest ways to gain a subordinate.

Such was the case with a lady in Lehi, Utah. Last Friday police removed 60 cats from her two-bedroom apartment, then condemned the dwelling. A few years prior, the police had removed 35. I guess she was more of a sovereign queen of kitties, rather than just a ruler of pets.



The thing is, I'm sure it all started with one feline and then snowballed out of control. I went through the same thing last year, but with houseplants. Although they're not pets, they are still something to rule over.

First I got a neat-looking yucca plant, and placed it in the living room. Then I thought a pepper plant by the window would be nice. Then I figured housing an aloe vera plant would be reasonable, for sunburns and what not.

And on it went with herb gardens and palms, until I realized I needed to take a deep breath and step back. Now on our front porch lay half-a-dozen stacked pots, like gravestones to those that I did away with. I guess I'm lucky I was able to nip the craving at the bud (no pun intended); the cat lady wasn't so fortunate.

My wife and I also have a little fiddler crab, that we rule over jointly. It's as far as we've gone in a pet venture. We got it about 10 months ago, and never thought it would live until now. But since it's survived the trials we've put it through (like the time we went on vacation for a week in December and left the heat off), we've grown attached.

I'll even say we've thought of getting a second fiddler crab, so it could have a friend. Thankfully we've been able to resist, because next thing you know we've got 60 and our next door neighbor is calling the police.

Cell phones were originally used to call people

http://imjosh.com/images/

I recently got a new cell phone for work. The thing does everything from GPS navigation to emailing. Heck, I could even update my MySpace page from it, if I had one. It's a lot different from my first wireless phone.

I decided to finally get a cell phone during my Sophomore year of college. I was sitting in class, watching some guy pick up on some girl--so I started taking mental notes. Before they parted ways, he smoothly pulled out his cell phone and asked her for her number.

That's when I decided to get one, so I could have something to put chick's numbers into. I went down to Cricket Wireless and signed up for the cheapest plan they had. No texting, no voicemail, and my service area was only in-state. All for an even 20 bucks a month, which matched the amount I budgeted each month for dating.

To my disappointment, I quickly found out that women wouldn't flock to me just because I had a mobile phone. When the opportunity finally came, and a girl was standing in front of me rattling off her number, I couldn't figure out how to type in her name with the stupid numeric keypad. And so Dgtmmg became the first female--that wasn't a relative--to grace my phone.

I also learned that I wouldn't suddenly muster the courage to call a girl just because I had her name (some form of it) and number programed into my cell phone.

Since then I've been through a number of phones. My personal favorite was the one that would randomly call 911. I'm not sure how it would happen, but the phone would be in my pocket, think there was an emergency, and dial away.

It happened once on a date. I got a call from the police, saying I had dialed 911 and they wanted to know if everything was all right. I told them it was, and explained my phone's bad habit. Then they told me they looked up my number and that there was a warrant out for my arrest.

A couple month's prior I had received a traffic ticket. I paid it right away, but somehow my payment didn't get recorded. It was a lot of fun handling that call in front of my date.

My new phone sure is slick, but it probably does too much. Looking back, I kind of wish I could go back to my first cell phone and the simple world that went along with it: dial and hang up.

The Kool-Aid tastes funny in Arkansas

http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e61/vasandack/kool_aid_man_main.jpg

In a particular Simpson's episode, Homer is on tour with the The Smashing Pumpkins. In a scene backstage, he is quizzed by a couple members of the famous rock band:

Billy Corgan: Hey, Homer, looks like our next stop is your hometown, Springfield.
D'Arcy: Is it true that we have to bring our own water?
Homer: We got a little rule back home: if it's brown, drink it down; if it's black, send it back.

In Arkansas, bright blue is the new brown...

Earlier this month, a day-care operator near Little Rock served windshield wiper fluid to 10 children. According to reports, the operator thought the brightly colored liquid was Kool-Aid. It was even chilled in the fridge before serving.

The good news; all 10 kids were quickly released from the hospital and are doing fine. The bad news; Arkansas just reaffirmed its usual stereotype.

I imagine a lot of people are outraged at the incident (like, say... the parents of these 10 kids), but I can understand the screw up. As a youth, I went through many unpleasant experiences while trying to figure out which liquids were palatable, and which were not.

For instance, my mom would always save the juice from cans of vegetables and use it for soup stock. When I came across the pale-colored liquid while sneaking through the fridge, I'd often mistake it for pineapple juice. It shouldn't be a surprise when I tell you the sweetness of green-bean juice certainly doesn't measure up to that of the pineapple.

On that same note, I also vividly remember a time when I found a mason jar full of brown liquid in the fridge. Mmmm... root beer! After taking a hearty swig, I was quickly reminded that my mom was big on homemade maple syrup.

I guess kids just have a knack for expecting things to be better than what they really are. That is, if it's wet, drink it down. How else do you account for Kool-Aid's success?

If this blog were a plant, it'd be a perennial

Experts say 50% of businesses fail within the first year. I should know, my "Abercrombie & Your mom" T-shirt business never made it to the mark... those eBay buyers are cutthroat.


I imagine the same stat pertains to blogs. Take my friend Jeris, who started a blog about a year ago. The introductory post was titled "Just one more thing to neglect." At least he was being frank--three post and three months later, his blog gave up the ghost.

A blogger's life is tough. Regularly coming up with new content and hoping we don't have any typos is the bane of our existence. We're avid expressionists flooding the Inernet with amateur writing and Ads by Google that nobody clicks on. With no reward but the comments left by our readers, we regularly have to look deep within ourselves to find a reason to keep posting.

That being said, please join me in celebrating this blogs one year anniversary. It's hard to believe, but rockmitchell.blogspot.com began on March 12, 2008. Since that date I've offended several family members and friends, had articles published in two newspapers, and made a little over 3 bucks with the Google Ads in my sidebar.

You're probably aware of the Sitemeter thing at the bottom of this blog. It not only keeps track of the number of visitors, but it also keeps tabs on where visitors come from, as well as what search words they may have used to end up here.

My most popular article, overall, is Rubber cement boogers vs. cell phones in school. It's most often stumbled upon by people from Ivy League schools Googling something like "effect of cell phones on education." Those poor saps sure hit a dead end when they arrive.

My most popular international article is Mistaken for something great. For some reason, people from South America and Eastern Europe love to search for "fubu boots." All they get, though, is an article about how much I suck at basketball.

My most popular article with the country folk is Big hunting trucks don't scare me. It's usually dudes from the bible belt or the deep south that are using search words like "I wanna see big trucks," or "cool elk hunting stickers."

The same experts that say 50% of businesses fail within the first year also say 90% of them fail within the first five years. Don't get your hopes up, oh faithful readers.