I ordered pizza online yesterday. Click click click, ordered. Got an e-mail about delivery time and I waited. Didn't even bother using a computer, I clicked in using my blackberry's wifi connection. 40 minutes and $23 later, I was chomping on some (overpriced) large tomato, sausage, and onion Papa Johns. Literally no human interaction needed at all--well, not on my part--my girlfriend brought the cash to the delivery guy. To be honest, though, I was more than happy to avoid unnecessary contact. I'm no recluse, but some of the most painful phone conversations I've had involve pizza orders. First of all, you're on hold instantly. ring ring "Thank you for calling Pizza Hut, can you hold?" "No, I'm starv-" click. Then, once they finally answer, the person on the other end doesn't know how to communicate. "Thank you for calling Pizza Hut, can you hold?" Oh right, that happens a again, but then you finally get the "Thank you for calling Pizza Hut. What can I do for you." Um, lets see, I called Pizza Hut. I need some one to come clean out my gutters. Oh wait, no, send me a pizza please. Just once, I want to tell them I've been waiting for 55 minutes for the heroin I ordered, but I'll never have the chance as I am now an internet pizza ordering convert.

Time for a change

Well now that it seems the Vikings won't be getting Favre. It looks like the internet crystal ball is revealing a trade with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. But I can live with that. If Favre was traded within the NFC North, the Vikings would beat the packers 5 times this year, while only playing them twice. Brett Favre sets records, and that would be a pretty impressive one. As a result, not only would the Packers fire everyone involved with the Favre fiasco, the entire team would cease to exist.

But enough wishful fantasy. We need to forget about what could have been. We need to move on. Farve for President. I have a roomie who would probably get violent with me if Favre donned the purple and gold. He despises the Packers and has a special hate in his heart for #4. If he were to come after me, it would be humorous, and I might be able to claim workers comp in the aftermath of his rampage. So I will now campaign for him to run for President. If the Packers won't let him belong to Minnesota, then let him belong to America. His running mate? None other than former Broncos quarterback, John Elway. Them man's also a Super Bowl-winning QB and even beat Favre in one of them. Favre will need someone to pull in the voters from AFC states that aren't very familiar with the NFC-fo-life quarterback. And what a better way to show Favre is willing to work through party lines than to choose a running mate with whom he's battled against in the biggest contest of their lives?

Vote Favre/Elway '08

Importance: High

I love having my iPod at work! The best tunes in the world from the present and past are piped directly into my ears while I attack some of the least engaging tasks I've ever completed. Another one pager? "Say it Ain't So-ooo-woah-oo-woah!" Intranet updates by COB?! "I think we better wait till tomorrow!" My presentation doesn't meet corporate standards!? "Who do you think I was?!" You need that report tomorrow? "I ain't sayin she's a gold digger!" ... that one makes no sense.

Life, Liberty and the Search of...

I've found it. Well, my roomies found it and introduced me. I'd driven by it a couple times, and you know how it goes: "Oh, that looks like it might be good." Well for god's sake, stop next time! If I would have, I'd be the guy who "found" Liberty Frozen Custard.

The place is a garage that's been retrofitted to be a throwback 1950s ice cream place - er, frozen custard place. The place has a slight identity crisis. Is it a garage-themed dessert place or just a straight up dessert place with a huge garage door? They've got sandwiches, hot dogs and vintage arcade games, too. Honestly, though, it doesn't matter. There's charm, and there's delicious desserts. Their gimmick, two new flavors each of frozen custard and Italian ice every day (check out their calendar). I can't get myself off of the custard, but the most refreshing is one scoop of their fruity Italian ice flavors with a scoop of vanilla custard. Only open till 10 each night, but one guy there will open up the window for the stragglers (shh, don't let it get out).

Favre martches down the field

Brett Favre continues to prove he is no mere mortal. He's been beaten up, broken, and even been declared dead before (ok, well, retired), yet he has always prevailed.

So is anyone really surprised to see him surge again for another bid for the Bowl? The guy's unstoppable. As a Vikings fan, I've hated the man. Laughed at him*, despised him, and even sent him hate mail. I hope he doesn't hold it against me. I've come to respect the grey-bearded Missourian for more than just a green-and-gold wearing warrior he was in the past. All before he was a candidate to join the Vikings, mind you. (Strib's Judd Zulgad)

He continues to prevail.

If a Viking fan can come to like the man, how do the Packers think they are going to win this PR battle? Favre has asked to be released, traded, and finally, to compete for his old job as a playoff-winning quarterback. They've turned him down on all fronts, and basically told him to stay at home. They've even lied about him using a company cell phone and checking phone records. Favre doesn't possess a company phone.

Sure, we could blame Favre for telling the world he was hanging his hat, and then turning again to try to claim his spot as Destroyer of the Secondary--weeks before training camp. But we don't. Or at least I don't and neither do many fans. If you've ever seen any other 38-year-old have as much fun playing a pro sport as Favre does, then we'd all love him or her, too.

I think that's why Favre can win the PR battle that continues to fester. He literally seems to hold nothing back when he talks to the media, which certainly isn't the way to win the hearts and minds throughout most media spectacles. But people like him. I know several Packers fans are not impressed with his recent antics, and it's no surprise that some Vikings fans want to tar and feather the guy no matter what the circumstances (but seriously, grow up--I think you could live with him as QB if the Vikes took a run at the Bowl).

But generally speaking, the public will support Favre even as he comes across as slightly bumbling:

“Them moving on does not bother me,” Favre said. “It doesn’t. I totally understand that. By me retiring March 3rd, I knew that could possibly happen. All I was saying is, you know, I’m thinking about playing again.”

And he appears to be flip-flopping more than IHOP on Sunday after church. He held on to his reinstatement papers, rather than shipping them off right away. He actually told the press that his wife and agent were not happy about that.

But he slowly marches down the field. He hasn't won yet, but he's making small gains, much like he's used to, utilizing short passes and the running game.

But as far as I can tell, we, the public, will support Favre through this nasty he-said-she-said. At least I will, wearing a shiny purple #4 jersey.

Do you want Favre in Minnesota?

(*I remember one instance where Favre broke his hand on a play and coddled his hand on the way over the to the bench, grimacing. I jeered the TV with my purple-clad friends making fun of how much of a wuss he was. Well during last week's men's lacrosse game I took myself out after a hit to ice my hand. It was not broken. Oh Karma...)

Bale's Curse

Go rent Rescue Dawn. The film is a soild account of a US Fighter pilot's struggle to survive after being shot down on a top-secret mission over Laos. Dieter Dengler, played by Christian Bale, is a German whose dream it was to become an American pilot.

The hot, sticky film is no Platoon. In fact, the green jungle, and uncomfortable realism is about all this and other Vietnam films have in common. Writer and Director Werner Herzog put together a much more subtle and sophisticated yet grungy film. Of course there's gunfire and blood and screaming, but it's scarce, and in turn, kicks you in the face harder when it happens. Half the movie is the plan to escape, building the anticipation. I won't steal anymore of the film's thunder.

Sure, The Dark Night has me on a Christian Bale kick right now. But just like the second Chris Nolan Batman installment, although Bale's performance is potent, his supporting cast delivers more flavor. (Ledger's single lip-smacking, ass-kicking, goosebump-inducing performance as the Joker deserves a posthumous lifetime achievement award on its own. And then Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman - nuff said). In Dawn, Dengler's partner in crime is played by Steve Zahn. Forget everything you know about the kooky best buddy. He's hilarious in Saving Silverman (him and Jack Black are the only reason to see that film), and he's alright in Sahara, but I'm convinced the lack of a big studio is the only reason he didn't snag an Oscar for this role. Steve Zahn gritty performance has you believing he was transported out of some Vietnam prisoner camp for the filming.

Nuff said. See this movie.

I entered the League of Extraordinary Douchebags today. What possibly could bring this down-to-earth, considerate, wonderful human being of an author to the D-bag status, you ask? I dove full force into bluetooth headset ownership with my popped collar waving in the wind. I know. Bad, huh?

Prior to purchasing the magical wireless D-bag accessory, I was perusing the options at the big blue box (yellow tag? D-bag candy store? I dunno what they call it). Almost every one of the headset boxes in Best Buy was mentioned "discreet design!" Well much to the contrary, there is now a permanent, very conspicuous black cyst attached to my ear with a blazing blue light shining from the center. And you want to know the part that bugs me the most? Nothing! Nada! I'm totally cool with it! I immediately opened the box, turned it on, and "paired" it, and called someone without even taking the my BlackBerry out of my pocket! Oh yeah, I have a new BlackBerry. File that one in the same douchbaggery column. I can read e-mails! And when I send e-mails via said device, they actually tell everyone that "this message sent via my BlackBerry." I've thought about replacing that message with "I sent this message while being a full fledged, registered D-bag, please call me so I can answer using my bluetooth wireless headset," but I'm too self righteously lazy to figure out how.

Feel free to join the club! There are discreet designs (sha...), and honestly, driving and answering, talking, and answering-calls-waiting is easier than ever before (texting is still a death-defying, daredevil stunt). It's so Spring 2008 to talk through a wired headset that turns you into Batman because it falls out any time you turn your head, nod, or breath (rubber-suited, stiff-necked-Michael Keaton-Val Kilmer-George Clooney Batman, not demi-god Christan Bale Batman). And plugging in that mini plug will get you just as crashed as occupying one hand with your mobile, if not more so. But I still text en route. Please forgive me.

Now if you'll excuse me, you're mild mannered author must excuse himself to go learn the finer points of the hey guns. They debut next weekend at the bars downtown.

**7/31/08 Update **

I no longer txt NE more! See this. Yikes.

50% per load

Ok. I'm an idiot. Flat out dumb. For the last couple weeks, my laundry detergent bottle has been sticky. Sure, not that shocking. But it wasn't just the front of the bottle. It was full-bottle stickiness that was getting on my nerves. Rather than live with rinsing and repeating every time I did laundry, I capped the bottle, and stuck it in the washer as it filled.

Ok. Get off my case! I planned to take it out, and I did... After the wash was done. Uncapped and empty. Over half a bottle of concentrated laundry detergent was in my clothes. After I rinsed for days, getting suds the whole time, I gave up and dried the load of whites today.

I started folding the load and wondered how babies' butts got in my laundry. The entire load was softer than silk. Hence my new strategy: half a bottle a load. Every time.

Mathematical equations

Size of spoon (p)

Size of noodles in noodle soup (n)

* p < n

therefore

* n-p is directly proportional to how much soup you have on your shirt

therefore

* the number of noodle soups there are in an office cafeteria is inversely proportional to the number of promotions there are at that office.

Top 10 reasons to live (stay) in Minnesota

1. Lakes. Remember? Lots of 'em.
   


2. We haven't had a professional sports championship since 1991. It's something to look forward to!
   


3. If you grew up in MN, you might not know it, but you actually like how bad the winters are. People with abusive parents end up with abusive spouses. It's science. Think about it.
   


4. You can't pull those effortless movie-chase-scene turns or donuts in your 4-cylinder Honda in January if you live in Phoenix or Texas.
   


5. We've got the best of it all. Music, movies, and politics: Bob Dylan and Prince; Josh Hartnett and Diablo Cody; Hubert Humphrey and Al Franken. The only state that can rival that is California (and probably others--let's be honest--none of those people actually still live here, right? Of course they didn't read this list before they moved).
   


6. There are only 62 people per square mile in MN, as opposed to Mexico City's 32,377 per square mile. Stretch those legs!
   


7. Twin cities. It means twice the fun. And twice the driving. But...
   


8. We have a light rail! It's so great. It runs from a big mall, to an airport, to downtown. Which is convenient for me cause I work over by St. Paul and I live over by Richfield.
   


9. We drink more than other places.
   


10. Since the winters inflict so much pain and anguish, the short summer is that much better!
    

Not gonna write you a love song

Listen, Minneapolis, i've had a great time. You've really helped me learn a lot about myself, you've shown me some great things, and I really love that twinkle in your eye when the sun rises from Dinkytown. But it's just not working for me. Sometimes, you're indifferent, a little harsh, and just downright cold. I mean, seriously, I spent all winter with you, and you would warm up to me some times, but you pretty much shut down when I tried to come out to you. And now it's April. I've put up with you for months, and now it's time to show a little love.

Don't get me wrong. I still want to see you from time to time. I want to stay friends. But I can't invest so much energy when you're just going to roll over and ignore my needs.

I mean, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? It's I hurt inside when you're this mean. I can't bear to stand around when I could be basking in the warmth and love of a city down south.

Judgement day

This is going to suck.

I walk into the Dakota County building at 8:30 a.m. About 50 others are already waiting. Some have tatoos, some wear suits, some have ripped jeans. Some are high school students wearing A&F. I put on a tie today. That's after waking up late, skipping breakfast, and taking a wrong turn. But now we're all waiting.

Oh, this is going to suck.

The courtroom starts out empty--then a bailiff opens the doors and belts out the rules. We file through the doors, fill the court room, and we wait. First we're in the line to sign in at the front of the room, then for our names to be called one by one. There's wood paneling everywhere. What's with court rooms and wood paneling? Eventually a suited prosecutor enters and sits on a wood chair at a wood table. She calls up one of us disputing a speeding ticket. They discuss. Then she calls another who was driving without a liscense or insurance. They discuss. Paperwork is everywhere.

It's already been 45 minutes. Wow this sucks.

Finally a judge appears. "All Rise," the bailiff bellows. The judge sits down. As the bailiff says "you can have a seat," the judge tosses his hand at his audience without concern, motioning us to sit down, already. His robe is not closed.

With a smirk, he says "You can see I wore my nice flannel shirt today," he says. The courtroom tension lifts. He begins buttoning the black robe. With exagerated facial expressions, he says "See I'm what they call a senior judge, which means I'm retired--good for nothing. They just ran out of judges today."

This will be good.

"If everyone had a theme song, you know what mine would be?" He pauses and smiles at us. "The McDonalds one. 'You deserve a break today.'"

Oh, this will be good.

"I think it's kind of stupid that you have to come in here and spend your whole morning waiting. If I had my way, you'd do this all by mail. But they don't listen to me. Maybe that's why I stayed here instead of going over to St. Paul."

This is better than a movie.

While the prosecutor continues to call up people to sit and discuss at the table, the Judge starts calling people up. But in front of the judge, we have to stand, with the judge up high staring down. Just like the movies.

The Judge calls up a high school student. It sounds like he was involved in stealing a candy bar and a can of pop at a convenience store.

"Now I don't have time to give long lectures this morning, but why would you go and do something stupid like that?" He says, continuing the exaggerated facial expressions. He turns to the court stenographer. "Why would he do something dumb like that, Jeff?" Back to the kid. "You'll be running for President of the United States, and then this will come up. And then, nope, you're out. You're really messing up your life!" He pauses. "Can you pay $100 in court fees today?"

The kid hesitates, like he doesn't want to pay fees. "Ah, yes."

The judge dumbs it down and leans toward him. "See, you're paying $100 to keep it off your record."

I don't think too many of us understand how this process works. Do we get off the hook just for showing up? What's going on here?

The judge continues calling us up, as does the prosecutor. The judge's stack of cases runs out.

"Well it looks like I don't have any more cases! If no one else wants to talk to me, I'm going to take a break."

Um, I've got a question: What the hell is the difference between talking to you and talking to the prosecutor? I don't actually speak up. But to a rookie, the courtroom experience can be a daunting one. As entertaining as the substitute judge was, we were all lost. Except for the tattooed lady who was caught violating her parole rules.

That was good.

Keeping tabs

I wish I came up with this business model.

I know it's my fault. I didn't order tabs in time, so I got a ticket. This woke me up, and I ordered tabs. But then then I got another ticket, and another, and another. A cop even turned left on a red light, followed me through several twists and turns, and pulled me over across the street from my office's parking lot. I told the cop I had the tabs in the mail and asked him a question about the ticket, he didn't know, didn't care, and told me to call the number on the ticket. His job is to protect and serve, but all I got served was a dish of brash attitude.

I know, I was at fault. But I can't put tabs on my plates when they're in the mail.

So I had some tickets. Too many tickets, many that came after ordering my tabs. So how do I explain that these tickets were written for me while I owned tabs that were in the mail? I had to drive out to court. Well, two courts in two different counties. When is court open? When I'm at work. When else can I go? Never. My only option is to take off work, which isn't always a viable option.

Today, I was pulled over with an expired license, and was told I cannot drive. My car would either be towed, or I could park it somewhere and walk to work. I parked. And now I'm stranded. I've called the courts several times to try to talk to someone, but the phone system disconnects me every time. I have nowhere to turn, other than pay all the fines. It's a fine business model they've cooked up.

Drinking the unknown

The main thing that's wrong with this country is that our flag is made with the colors red, white, and blue. This is an attack on our children's education, as the three primary colors are red, yellow, and blue. Our children are growing up thinking white is one of the most important colors, when really, white is just the absence of color. Of course if they have a really, really old flag, they might be on the right track. So I guess I can let that one slide.

But the next-worst thing that's wrong with this country is the blatant disregard for health--human, and otherwise--in lawmaking. Now I'd never run for any type of office (but if enough of you start calling for it, we'll talk. I've got a campaign manager and a spokesperson lined up), but I'd like to think that I, or any other kid with an over-sized ego would get into politics to make things better for people. Part of this would be protecting the public.

Why am I blasting the man like this? See, I just drank a Rockstar sugar free energy drink, and I want to know what I'm drinking.

Since I didn't spend much time in the laboratories (say it like the Brits do, it's more fun), I can't really build one, so I'd appreciate it if the government started a program to test drugs, food, and other consumables. I'd love to trust those companies, but I don't even know who they are, so it's kinda hard to trust them. If I can suggest a name for this government group, I'd call it the Food and Drug Administration.

I just googled that name to see if it was already taken and it turns out The FDA was established in 1906 with the passage of the Food and Drug Act after previously being called the Buerau of Chemistry. I'll bet they have some pretty good labs. Thanks Teddy Roosevelt. You're def in the top 10 presidents--chemistry wise. Bottom 10? Bill Clinton. I know it's a suprise, but remember, this is on the scale of "how healthy for the human body your laws were." On other scales, he's way up there. Saxophone ability: top 3, Hair style impressiveness with age: top 10 (hello Taft!), and Legendary Partiers: #2 (second only to Bush-The Sequel. I'm afraid if we get a Clinton sequel, we won't get another legendary partier, though. She's gonna be #1 on the bitter triginometry teacher scale).

Ok, enough beating around the W. What did Slick Willie do that was so bad? How could any modern age president be bottom 10 at anything? (OK - bad question).

Clinton's administration was responsible signing into law the Dietary Supplement Health and Education Act of 1994. D'Shea for short (Pretend it's the name of a really bad early 90's R&B artist with a hit song titled "When Time Is Love." That will help establish negative connotations).

D'Shea states that instead of passing FDA tests, dietary supplements only needed safety approval from one entity--the company selling the "supplement." Teddy would roll in his grave!

I can only consider the serious tests the Austrian company that produces Red Bull runs on their drink, which originated in Thailand. The scene opens in one of those stale cop movie questioning rooms with one light hanging from the ceiling. There are two men in suits, on the other side of the thick, grey table, one cash strapped Austrian college student. He sips, they observe, he gags, bud doesn't throw up, they check the box next to "OK."

So after I finished my Rockstar Sugar Free drink, I checked to see what was in it. 10 calories per serving, check. 0 carbs, check. Protein? Fat? No mention. The 10 calories had to come from somewhere, but I can't find them. Not on the can, not on their website, and no other third party lists that information.

An e-mail to Rockstar, Inc. was not returned after five days.

Throwback

I just spent some time looking at an old website of mine I made while I was in college. I'm going to forgo cleverly writing a throwback entry in the style of the "blog" I kept back then. It would be so boring it would instantly inject ADD into your veins. Speaking of which, can you catch ADD? I know I never had it. Well I don't think so. My roommate has it. He also has X-Box 360, a nearly-full box of Corn Puffs, and Sperry Topsiders. I think the Topsiders make him look old, but distinguished. I assume the box of Corn Puffs won't be full for much longer. There are also lots of clothes on my bed. Whoa. Where am I?

Well I think I'm going to a party tonight, which should be really exciting. And I guess there's not really much to write about. My buddies Dan and Keeler are in Africa. I'm excited for them. But mostly jealous. I also burned the new Britney CD and am completely losing track of any semblance of cohesion in my writing. The Wild won the other night. Fun. Please continue to read this blog after this post. Or don't. Your call, really. Free will. It's what makes us humans. I'm getting a call, gotta go.

Spay and neuter your pets.

X-box hook ups

Never have video games worked so smoothly for me. I was playing X-Box live this weekend. Sure my roomie (who owns the system) was there, but we prefer switching off playing Live fullscreen instead of two-player split screen (Half a screen? I need a full television of destruction all for myself!).

Anyways, a lady friend of mine was hanging out with us while I was pwning those n00bs. When she got bored watching--she's not much of a voyeur--miss congeniality grabbed the headset from me and broadcast that Dbolt44 was in fact a female playing among the men. Now you've got to undestand, this is much like some boys club where everyone is content with status quo, but when estrogen enters the room, nothing else matters. Like a poker night. Or a sausage party. My teammates perked up and started chatting immediately.

Of course I only heard one side of the convo. Here's what my swiss cheese memory recalls:

"Hi, what's your name? ...
We just got back from the bars ...
You too? How old are you? ...
Where are you from? ...
Montreal?! Ooooh, you speak French!!!"

(she throws a couple French phrases out, and then it comes...)

"Are you on Facebook?"

In a matter of about 5 minutes, she was invited to Montreal to "play." I assume he's not planning on turning on multiplayer Call of Duty 4 with her, I mean, split screen just sucks.

Endorsing...

Now that Super Tuesday has come and gone and everyone has had their say, I think it's finally time for this great blog to endorse a candidate. No more lollygagging, waffling, flip flopping or panel tamping. This is serious business.

I think it's finally safe to pick a candidate that many other people agree with so I don't seem like I'm out of touch when that candidate loses early in the primary process, cause that would just ruin Driving with Rope's credibility.

Therefore, I can say with great conviction that Driving with Rope will now endorse Al Gore.

What's that? He isn't even running? No, I'm sure I saw him winning in the primaries, or at least he was always on the TV screen. Oh. That was the history chanel? I didn't have the volume up. Lay off me. I'm starving.

Screw it. Vote for Bon Jovi.

Checkin it twice

I have a seriously important decision ahead of me. My birthday is coming up and I need to decide what to do with it. Life or Death, really. I kind of feel like it's a similar feeling to the pre-New Year's Eve anxiety.

"Oh man, this party is gonna be great...well at least I expect it to be. I mean, it better be. It only happens once a year. No do-overs, so this party better be the best. Wait... what am I even gonna do?"

So it's time to plan. I'll start with lists. Lists of bars, lists of activities, lists of people, lists of drinks (I WON'T drink anything with the word "fire" in the title, I NEED to drink something with Red Bull). Maybe I should just have a list party.

"Everyone, come to my house Saturday, we're going to make lists. No, no, trust me. I've already made 563 lists this week, it's fun. The party will be fun. It HAS to be fun, it only comes once a year."

Got it. I'll use the self-fulfilling prophecy. Instead of worrying about it NOT being fun (which in turn, will make it suck), I'll just worry about it being TOO fun.

"Dude, check it out, Dustin made a list about the best dinosaurs. This party rocks. Pass me a jag bomb, it's on my 'yes' list. You! Get out! You're not on the list!!"

I'm excited.

No, it's a cardigan--

Subscribe now, and receive this fleece pullover.

Driving with Rope now has an RSS feed (notice the big orange button to the right). Add the RSS feed to your reader and you'll receive a fleece pullover in the mail (if you ordered one online from LL Bean prior to subscribing to this feed).

And now, to explain the title of this post, a joke:

A blonde is driving 80 in a 55 mph zone. She zooms right through a speed trap and a police car pulls out after her. He turns the lights on, the siren, nothing stops her. He pulls up beside her and yells "pull over!" The blonde says "no, it's a cardigan!"

Burgers and Burgers

So I ate at The Nook by Cretin the other day. It was a dissapointment--because I couldn't eat more burger after I finished mine. The Nook has probably the best burger in the city (definitely top five). Read my assessment on Minneapolis Metblogs.

Virtues on the slope

I snowboarded for the first time ever this past weekend. I could bore you with the details (i.e. sweet jumps/jamming the slopes to the maxstreme/pwning noobs with my ride). But instead, with deep, profound wisdom I'll relate this experience to the virtue of fortitude.

In the history of snowsports, Snowboarding is relatively new. I really don't feel out of the loop being a rookie. I mean, you can't blame me for not trying the new Firey Nacho Taco Doritos, right? Duh. Well even so, I was surprised that I felt no humility dropping to my knees (or face, or butt, or back) every 3-10 feet down Big Bunny in Lutsen. Without apology, I'd crash to the snow, look around, and try to get back up--and getting back up was the hardest part.

The resistance of pain. Courage. The samurai call it yū. It all comes down to fortitude. That first time down Big Bunny, I kept getting up, sure my hands hurt, my butt was sore and I was more tired than I had ever been. I was a poster child, a living display of courage, yū, fortitude.

Then I made it down the hill a second time and got sick of it. Too much work getting up all the time. But I sure looked cool doing it (is that too vain of me to say?)

(Side note from that same weekend--scream Billy Joel's Piano Man in large groups any time you get a chance.)

Corporate Communications

You can't make this up. We had our National Conference at work recently. I'm responsible for some of the content at this conference, so I'm sitting behind the scenes. So as a complete surprise to me, at the end of our CEO's presentation, he makes a surprise announcement of recognition for our group's volunteer efforts. He calls our VP, his admin and a couple other people up on stage--including me--to accept awards for our community involvement. So as I'm about to emerge on stage from the depths of backstage land, I notice in a gleaming instant of corporate etiquette awareness that the CEO and my VP are both jacketless, so I toss my navy blue blazer off my body like I'm about to dive into an Olympic-sized pool of department wide recognition--only the rest of my clothes stay on my body. I straighten my shirt, and head out on stage.

As our CEO hands me this fancy glass award, he says, with his lapel microphone transmitting to the audience "nice to see you." Instant corporate street cred. I'm pretty sure everyone in the audience was like "sure, VP and everyone else got awards, but JR--the CEO said it was good to see him--again." I could pretty much walk off that stage and demand that Olympic-pool-sized respect from anyone in the crowd. So I'm high as a kite, in the pride sense. I was also doing narcotics backstage with the crew, but I have such a tolerance now, those really had no effect on me. But as the CEO turns back to the podium to finish off the recognition, he stops himself and takes a sniff. Sure, you always think "oh no, he smells the Jack on my breath," like every time there's a pause in the convo with your boss. But when he turned around with a quizzical look in his face, I saw a flicker of orange in his glasses. I spun around just as the admin blurted out something about fire. My eagerness to submit to corporate etiquette had caused me to toss my blue blazer right on top of a backstage light, which had just enough heat to light it ablaze. I let out an expletive under my breath. Never swear in front the CEO, right? Well he lets out an audible curse over that lapel mic as I run back to stomp it out. I'm hoping the fire ate through enough of the material that it's unidentifiable by even the most skilled of striking CSI writers. I start stomping more furiously than that old man in Billy Madison. One of the crew members runs over with an extinguisher and sprays the entire area including my now singed pant cuffs and the medium-rare stage curtain.

Ok, seriously. the fire thing is all made up. I seriously can't keep making this up and still make it believable. It's like season 8 of your favorite sitcom. Some sharks were about to be jumped, big time. Everything else is real. Except for the narcotics. Then I found five dollars.

Cheesesteaks with Ben

This past weekend I was in Philly, where it all started. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, Philly Cheesesteaks. It was awesome in the most literal sense of the word: I was full of awe. Well at least with all the historical stuff. It was great seeing Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and all the 2000+ year-old history. We saw where the Declaration was signed and saw a chair that George Washington actually sat in. A buddy of ours came in from Washington D.C., and we just scoffed at him. D.C. has nothing on the birthplace of America. D.C.'s just a pretender. Philly's a true contender, what with Rocky on top of it all. We even saw a sign for "Breakfast with Ben Franklin." It would have been fun, but we didn't bother, we visited his grave, we knew he was actually dead.

So that part was great, but the cheesesteak failed to amaze. Don't get me wrong, Geno's famous sliced Grade B meat with sauteed onions and cheese whiz was as good as the sum of those parts could be, but it cost over $7. I may have been expecting too much. Philly is not known for its fantastic regional cuisine. The second-most-important ingredient is cheese whiz. But that didn't stop me. I had at least 3 of the said sandwiches (maybe more--I lost track of several hours during which I lost a digital camera). We also fell in love with Crown Fried Chicken. Sure, flavor always factors into an sexy weekend food fling, but proximity helped. Crown was closer than the convention we were in town for--which was across the street. And of course there was alcohol consumption befitting of a weekend trip, as well.

I think it all caught up to me. After flying home and the souvenir hangover slowly subsided, around 4 a.m. an intense pain shot through my back and down my arm. Great, I thought, I've given myself a Philadelphia-sized heart attack. I started to think about where to get a bottle of Bayer, started breathing to moderate my heart rate (is that even a strategy?), and then something snapped. The pain was gone and left me with a warm, slightly tingling sensation. It must have been a knot in my back, or something less serious than cardiac arrest, but I almost gave myself a heart attack thinking I was having a heart attack. Of course if I kicked it, I'd be able to catch that breakfast with Ben Franklin.