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.