Sunday, May 31, 2009

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)...

Saturday, May 23, 2009

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.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

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.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

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.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

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.