Time passes

It's Tuesday... in June. Yikes! Where does the time go? The scary (yet exciting) fact is that I enjoy such rapid passing of time, and although I still haven't settled into my post-school rhythm I'm slowly gaining control of my schedule. First off, school is over, as most of you know. We all threw one hell of a BBQ (which many of you attended) and I nearly fulfilled my promise of a legendary drinking performance. Alas, at the end of the evening no one had gone streaking, and I woke up in normal PJ's and a moderate if non-existent hangover; yet I certainly pushed the inebriation envelope and won't be drinking like that for another five or six months.

It's five p.m. My day today: Ride, work, nap... headed out for ride number two. Not too shabby, a good schedule. I'm trying to regain some bicycling-confidence after a horrid experience last weekend at Mt. Hood. The weekend bared strong resemblance to the Tour de Toona back in 2005: good prep, superb legs, and an unwavering lack of belief in myself. Never underestimate my ability to mire good fitness in bad brains. I don't want to write about this... I'm upset but I'll deal and it doesn't change my love of the sport, nor my narcissistic opinion of everything in my life non-cycling related (hey the counselor says its OK!). That's the beauty in such a blog, created under the pretense of pure extemporaneous ramblings... let's talk about other things.

Like Lauren, for example. She leaves this Friday (or Saturday, if I can dissuade her for an additional 24 hours) to begin her two months' incarceration up at Camp Happy Girl in McCall. OK, it's not actually called that, but I haven't yet memorized the term the Girl Scouts of America has assigned to its institution. Ouch, I sound a bit sour, when in actuality I'm not too upset. I'll miss Lauren, but we'll get our visits in here and there. Plus, this is the frosting part of her job, after six months of scrambling to hire staff, write curriculums, arrange bus skeds; all the while dealing with typical "Hey I'm miserable to be here" co-workers. She's earned a couple months' stay in the wilderness. Any malevolence I express stems from pure selfishness.

This blog breaks the seal on a sparse year of personal journaling, and I'm looking forward to logging more key strokes in the months ahead. I'll have to fill you in on the unexpected side effects of non-academia. Tom Crawford recently graduated as well, and on his blog he mentions recently being denied a library card for summer enjoyment. I'm off the list, too, and just found out that my ID card works to enter my lab but no longer grants access to the building (in which the lab is located). Hooray. More later. The pic above was taken in Moab over Spring Break. Little after the fact, but worth posting. My mountain bike should come in sometime this week... dig it.

all-most....

Aero project? Check (see below, nerdery in its finest). I modeled 60-mph airflow over the cross-bars of an empty Yakima roof rack. That black silhouette... yep, the Volvo. The top row is without a fairing, the bottom row includes one. If you really care, shoot me an email and I'll tell you the drag force an empty roof-rack adds to your car at such speeds. Nerds.

I'm up to page 18 with my renewable energy systems term paper. Roughly another seven pages and I'm golden. No worries. No? worries?

crunch time

yes indeed, busy am i. busy enough to not bother with capitalization of proper nouns nor sentence headers. hah! hah, the life of a rebel!

OK, Enough of that. But seriously, things are insane. Next Tuesday: comprehensive exam (as in THE exam). One day later: Aerodynamics design project due. Two days later: Spanish test. Four days later: Renewable Energy Systems test. One week later: 25 page term paper regarding Proton Exchange Membrane Fuel Cells in Non-Automotive Applications. Two days later, another aerodynamics project.... Drip, drip, (cranium seepage).

Thank goodness I got to sneak away last week, though I wonder if the cold-water-shock-contrast of returning to this mayhem will send me into a coma. Lauren and I went down to southern Utah for a week; car camping four or five nights and lodging in 40-dollar hotels the remaining evenings. It was incredible, to understate things. I've a new-found respect for Utah's beauty... there are two or three thousand national parks along the southern edge of the state. Not really, but a buttload. If we gleaned anything from our week's visit, it is to budget WAY more time per national park. The Grand Staircase Escalante National Park, aside from having a bi-lingually redundant title, would take decades to fully explore. Two days in passing left us shell shocked though euphoric, and we're already planning a future return trip.

Managed to see my dad on the way back to Elko to Boise. Not worth writing about. He's getting old. He walks and moves like a 75-year-old ex-sumo wrestler, all busted up with arthritis and yet still working construction jobs in 38-degree winter conditions. Still a drunk. Still a travesty.

In contrast, we also got to hang out with my mom, Bob, Heather and Jacob for a day point five. Wow! Bob made us a meal that made up for one week's worth of camp-snack-junk food, and I enjoyed watching my mother and Lauren get to know each other even more. They really haven't spent much time together; ironic that they both mean so much to me, and yet there is such distance (geographical) between them.

Tonight I'm taking a break from studying. I'm headed to Lauren's to watch some good old fashioned TV and relax a bit. Three more weeks. Three more! Lord help me. Three more weeks till it's over; either ending with my Master's or a brain hemorrhage.

Thanks for checking back, it's been a while since I've written.

busy. ouch. busy

blink

Busy busy busy. School, relationships, training, work, yikes. This may be the first weekend since school started where I'm not scrambling to get ahead with homework or projects at the lab.

Finally got my new bicycle built up. Very similar to my laptop last year, I'm feeling a huge wave of pride and ownership after ponying up so much personal cash to get it running. As my mom pointed out, this is the first bike in a long time that I won't have to give back at the end of the season. I hate to make it my first picture posted to this blog, but it just might happen.

A random tidbit, actually the occurence that made me finally break down and write another blog, is the chicken bone that hit me on the shoulder today. Yessir, a chicken bone. About four blocks from home, riding my bicycle, a gnawed-down chicken leg bone dropped from the sky and whacked me. I looked up to see an aggrevated squirrel, teetering on an oak branch 30 feet overhead and violently chirping accusations. That one, paired with a dozen other too-hilarious-to-ignore happenings, has cast a humorous tint on the past three weeks of stress.

The stress is paying off though, and I feel that I'm juggling things well. I fly out next week to an interview with Stryker down in San Jose, California. Funny, I don't know if I'm truly aspiring to work in California, but it's flattering to reach the fourth stage (of four total) in the interview process. The last stage was the most entertaining: a 50-minute phone interview with Gallup (as in Gallup Polls) that left me spun, wondering what my name was. Binary questions, followed by "please give me an example".... each question a slight twist on one asked six minutes previously.

My favorite:
"Do you consider yourself a funny person, Mr. Allan?"
"Sure do, I'm hilarious."
"Do you make your work companions laugh?"
"They love me, I keep the work environment light."
"Please give me an example of something you did in the last week to make them laugh."

Ouch, are you kidding? Let me explain something (and I apologize if you've already heard this from me but I must tell). Those people, the ones that actually remember what they did to make someone laugh... they are not funny people. "Honey, you'll never guess what happened today at work. It was great! I made a clever quip about the capacity of our recycling bin as compared to Mr. Collins' retirement fund. Everyone laughed, I'm a hero! I'm a funny hero. Ah, Honey, I wish you could've been there." No thanks.

Jason told me I should have answered with the intro to a blatantly inappropriate Playboy-quality joke. "Hmm... well, they all loved this one: So a nun, a Jew, and a midget are walking down the street..." To protect my honor, I do not know the rest of that one, and I apologize to all of my height-impaired Jewish Nun readers.

I also found out that my final "Hey I've my Master's Degree in Engineering" exam is April 11, a bit surreal but exciting nonetheless. Ticking down. Okay, my brain is numbing and I'll cut this off. Instead of that shiny new bicycle, I'm posting a picture of McKinley. Little bugger has grown on me over the past couple years... She still owes me for that SWIX beanie she ate the tassles off of, and I've yet to teach her to bag her own poop... but she's coming around.

misc

Not too much to report on from the Valley of the Sun. The temperature has gradually risen since my arrival, though unfortunately the wind has as well. I have yet to figure out the wind in this place, as it seems to blow from a different direction every day... every hour. I'll take 80 degrees and windy any day. Not too hard to tolerate.

Said and done, I have another five or six days of riding before returning home to Boise. The duration seems perfect; if I were staying longer I wonder if my focus would be the same. So far I've been very committed and diligent with riding and resting, and have yet to feel like I'm biting off more than I should in terms of mileage. The most epic ride to date was the Kitt Peak loop on Wednesday.

Kitt Peak lies 42 miles to the West, along Ajo road (AKA Highway 86, I believe). After a gradual decent out of Tucson, then a gradual ascent to the foot of the mountain range, you're at the base of the 12 mile and 3100 foot climb to Kitt Peak. There is a national observatory atop the peak, complete with five or six gigantic telescopes. The ride up the mountain was manageable, averaging about 8%, but nevertheless it was half way through a 108-mile ride. It was the most awesome out-and-back ride I've done in years. How often is the turnaround point in the shadows of massive telescopes? I got back to the house tired, but not wiped, and actually slept well that night.

That was the most epic, but every ride leaves me smiling. I'm so excited about the upcoming season, almost too excited. I'm really struggling internally with just how much to invest, emotionally, in the 2006 race season. Damn I'd like to do well, no getting around that. The pieces are in place, as in previous years, I just have to keep perspective. Easy enough, right?

In other news, I seriously miss Lauren. No getting around that, either. Funny how men and women differ in communicating feelings. I seem to interpret number of calls per day as love, she seems to interpret mushy soft-voice dialogue as love. Either way this trip has been challenging for both of us. When I return, we have three days to visit before she flies off for a work conference in Chicago. Between our lean time together and the start of the new semester, it will be a challenging month. That is all.

Why, what did you do for New Years?

The day started pretty well, though I wasn’t as spunky on my ride as I had hoped. I left the house around 7:30 and swung by Starbucks for a pre-ride decaf (sounds weird, but the act of drinking a hot beverage still offers a stimulant placebo). I headed south along Mission Boulevard, a low-traffic road with decent pavement that winds its way along the western side of Tucson, through the San Xavier Indian Reservation.

Saw some crazy things alongside the road. Aside from the lovely variety of cacti and desert plants, the random debris littering the shoulders blew me away. There wasn’t much trash, but the eclectic items I spotted included a crispy sun-starched sombrero (no kidding), a partially devoured wheel of cheese, and the charred remnants of an antique baby stroller. Only the decorative wheels remained of the stroller, bordered with gummy hoops of melted rubber. All the items were equally disturbing.

I’ve only done Mission Blvd. once, and it was two years ago with a group of 80 riders. Today was much slower, making me feel fatigued and question if I should be out there at all. After 30 miles of a 14 mph pace I flipped around… turns out I was climbing uphill into a headwind, and to my reassurance I averaged 28 miles per hour all the way back to town! During this time of year my body shifts to full-on endurance mode, which means I can ride forever but it takes a LONG time to get warmed up. I called it a day, went home, ate a pot of cheesy couscous and watched Caddy Shack for the second time this trip. I’m trying to hone my Bill Murray impersonation. Chicks dig it, so you know I got that goin’ for me.

So later I’m driving along, venturing northward in the Volvo en route to a Wild Oats Market on ritzy Oracle Avenue, and I hear this loud, LOUD, pop. Almost sounded like a backfire, or a small child wedged beneath the front grill (just kidding, that would be muffled and much more prolonged). I glance backward in the mirror; nothing suspicious. I turn down the radio and listen to the engine; nothing suspicious. I glance at the instrument panel and see a Swedish Christmas tree of colors: every light blazing in cautionary glory. Oil light, wiper fluid light, and even that crazy lambda “son” light I’ve yet to figure out.

I made it back to Erik’s and shut it off, popped the hood and didn’t see anything wrong. All the fluid levels were fine and the car started back up with no worries. Later this evening I was cruising around snapping some pictures of the setting Tucson sun. I pulled into a Chevron to refuel. The car never started again. I pushed it out of the way and discovered a fan belt ripped in two and wedged in the fan blades. Sweet. So now I am a forty-minute walk from home, on the WRONG side of the tracks (literally) with a broken-down car on New Year’s Eve.

Me: Hey, will it be a problem if I leave my car here until I can get it towed? Should be tonight, perhaps tomorrow.

Mr Gas Station Derelict: Um, ya got anything valuable in there?

Me: Nope, I’m taking it with me and there’s no stereo or anything.

MGSD: Don’t matter, this is a reeel bad parta town. They’ll break in anyway.

Me: Awesome, I’ll be back.

Walked back to Erik’s and managed to find a tow truck company running on New Year’s Eve. Pedaled my bike back down there, watched them load the car up, and got directions to the auto shop where it will be stored until January 2^nd. OK. Happy New Years. Pedaled my bike home and watched Top Gun (Val Kilmer is such a dork). Went to bed at 11:12pm. Weird dreams. Hooray for old cars.

This just in.

Managed to squeeze out a 4.0 this past semester. Had to brag, since I was seriously skeptical of the MBA class. Dig it.

Tux, 3 and (not) counting

hello hello. Everything worked out wonderfully. I managed to track down D. Robinson on Wednesday afternoon, and he gave me close-enough directions to Erik's house. Turns out that Erik lives right by the university... ironically I was three blocks from his house whilst typing my last entry! Big D is residing there for a few days until some friends return from Christmas vacation, but honestly there seems to be enough space for all of us. Erik started a new relationship three weeks ago, so right now he's in that "hey why sleep at home when I can spend every hour of every day with my new girl?" mode.

We all started out for a ride yesterday morning; Erik, David, two of Erik's teammies and yours truly. I had different plans, however, and opted to stay in the valley instead of climbing Mt. Lemmon with the group. Mt. Lemmon sits just northeast of Tucson, and the newly-paved road climbs 24 miles before topping out around 8500 feet! I dig the climb, but wanted to give my legs another few days of flat riding before straining fibers and tendons in an uphill slug. My day turned out epic enough anyway, since I ended up being 'pimped' by the wind for five hours. I sometimes like to convince myself that God is trying to make me stronger by turning the wind against me... it takes just as much faith as believing the devil is trying to kill me, but is much less pessimistic. The official ride time was 4 hours 58 minutes; a bit longer than I wanted to be out, but my body handled it OK.

More than OK, my body wanted more. I got up at 6:00 this morning (waking pulse 40 bpm) and was pedaling by seven. I cut it 'short' at three hours ride time. If I get a good nap in I might head back out this afternoon, but if the nap isn't superb I'll take it as a sign to rest more. Two years ago, the last time I was here, I remember writing about the crazy Tucson-Time-Dilation. If you don't ride at least four hours, you feel like a sissy. 75-degree weather, a handful of new routes, and a day completely centered around riding.... what excuse is there to ride less than 240 minutes? It's hard to keep the training load in perspective.

Lack of wi-fi at the house gives me an excuse to hit the Fourth Avenue hippie district, again within walking distance of Erik's pad. I'm sitting on a rickety bar stool de'coupaged with Marvel comics, staring out a huge window at the passer-bys in the winter sunshine. I swear Bob Marley just walked by, followed by Anthony Kedis of the Red-Hot-Chili-Peppers and... Dennis Hopper. It's a fun area with about five coffee shops and a Co-Op natural grocer. I'll probably be back down here tomorrow night, too, since PLUSH is hosting some sweet bands in celebration of New Year's Eve. He doesn't think I know, but David's birthday is tomorrow, and Erik and I are scheming something crazy in celebration.

Battery's beeping, good time to cut it off. More to come.

Tux Day One

Blasted in last night, ended up crashing in a hotel just three miles west of Tucson. So much for splitting it up. I always get that way during long drives: sure, sitting in a car for 13 hours sucks, but the idea of stopping at hour eight and having to resume the torture in the morning is, well, torture.

What a mind blower so far. Tucson is the same as it was two years ago, of course, but I am in a completely different place personally. I am sitting at an outdoor table on University Drive, about two blocks from the U of A convention center. I came here first to snag some coffee from a hip little shop I visited before, but to my surprise it’s been torn down with a Starbuck’s erected in its place. Works out for me, viva la corporation, but it’s sad to see the little guys go under.

Thus, I will kill some time until it, ahem, “warms up” and I can head out for my first ride. It’s 7:45am and 53 degrees right now, not too shabby. Elko was glacial yesterday morning when I waved goodbye, but thankfully the conditions cleared about thirty miles into my journey and I had smooth sailing. My Tucson host was not expecting me until today, so I’ll just poke around town until the afternoon when we can rendezvous. During my vagabond months in the VW bus, I learned that time-killing should be finessed and not depended on… I do fine playing tourist for a day, but car-living makes me feel degenerate.

If you have never experienced Tucson, I suggest you escape for a winter weekend one year. Good culture, good weather, and beautiful views. I won’t endorse the summer season, but around New Year’s I prefer no other place in the U.S.

Lots to come. The next 16 days should allow me to ramble on and on and on about all of my activities. Lucky you, I also got a digi-cam (finally) and will figure out how to post pics on PROLIX. First pointless blogs, now pointless pictures too? Have mercy.

Bring It

Bring it on, that is. I'?m up ridiculously early, prepping for the approaching vacation time. Yessir, prepping and trying to wrap up work projects, bills, house duties, and everything else that could potentially unravel in my three-week absence.

It'?s been a great month. First off, let'?s talk about hockey. Kevin'?s birthday was last Friday, and he just happens to have a friend who dates a girl who works for Albertson'?s Corp who... Well, we ended up scoring some hockey tickets and celebrating from suite 307: a swanky mid-rink patio overlooking the Idaho Steelheads arena. Talk about a cool evening. Kevin, his fiance Sarah, Lauren and I swooped into Opa for a pre-game Hot Choco beverage then shuffled over to the arena; soon to be escorted to the suite by aforementioned Trevor.

Lauren had never been to a hockey game before. Heck, listen to me, I'?ve only been to one; though I'?ve watched a few games on TV. During the first brawl I watched her reactions more than I watched the fisticuffs: "?What the hell!? They just let them fight!? Why doesn'?t someone break it up!? What kind of a sport is this!?"? In addition to the big-boy ballet on ice, we also enjoyed listening to Trevor'?s endless supply of personal near-death experiences. At age 23 he'?s been stabbed twice (once by a brother), severed three fingers in a table saw (had all three re-attached but now lacks all feeling... which spawned another story of blistering his fingers on a hot burner completely unawares while his girlfriend screamed in horror), and a day spent snowboarding with a shattered shoulder and ribs (all trying to maintain a cool-guy I'?m-not-hurt attitude for his snowboarding date). Wow. Add to that the inter-familial brawl in the suite next to us and you'?ve got an exciting night on the town.

We all went down to Estrella last night; a new tapas bar downtown created by the owners of the Milky Way. Not too shabby, but not geared toward the penny-pinching grad student. Plus, I had high expectations for authentic Spanish tapas, which were of course unfulfilled. I had a phenomenal martini mixed with Apricot Liquor, Cava, and fresh-squeezed OJ, but for $8.00 a pop I was limited to one. Ouch, an $8 drink in Boise? I could see that in Seattle, Chicago, etc., but Boise?

The plan: Lauren and I head out in two hours for the cabin. We went to the Co-op (chicken coop, that place was beyond busy yesterday) and plumped a good chunk of cash for some fancy cheese. Get this: we'?ve decided to eat cheap and easy meals, but to wine and dine with aperitifs and beverages in-between. Time to crack open that Spanish Champagne we got from Dykstra for our two-year anniversary, thinly slice the stinky cheese, and pretend we do it all the time. The weather'?s been dumping moisture (the frozen dandruff kind) into the mountains so we'?ll log some epic hikes and refuel on cheese alone. I'?ll let you know how my body holds up after such a diet.

OK, back to it. This is an exciting time for sure; cabin, Christmas, Arizona warmth, then the final chapter of grad school. OK.

viva

The academic world is grossly out-of-step with the Christian calendar. Don't they know, the professors that is, that we're required to prepare well in advance of December 25th for the Christmas holiday? I just finished my finals today, which means I started frantically scribbling Christmas cards this evening.

Life is rolling along like a wet sponge; I'm getting too wound up about future employment. Too often I lie awake at night, waiting for sleep to descend; chasing thoughts about resumes, cover letters, interviews, networking, locations... Come on, I'm still six months from graduating, and probably nine months from relocation. The underlying anxiety permeates everything I touch, including my relationship with Lauren, and I am way too cranky way too often. Too, too, how many times is TOO many to use TOO?

Lauren and I head to the cabin next week for a three-day pre-Christmas vacation, a welcome respite before I journey to Elko and then south to Tucson for a couple weeks. The three days in the mountains will be the only full-on rest during this break, and I'm looking forward to sleeping late, eating well, and logging some epic snow-laden hikes. The last trip Lauren and I followed some elk tracks a few miles up a trail. In my non-Sacagawean knowledge I assumed we were a mere five minutes behind them, though the tracks were likely laid hours before our arrival. This time the snowscape should offer new opportunities to fake mountainman insight... are there bears in Idaho?

I am excited about Tucson, and the couch is reserved awaiting my arrival. A friend of mine calls the sport of cycling "a tall man in a midget circus", meaning it is the most outlying of sports in the public eye. The benefit to such a niche sport is that friendship ties run deep and thick; how else would I have a couch to occupy seven hundred miles away? During my training time I'll also be shooting cover letters to potential employers. Between pedaling my bike and peddling myself I will stay occupied. I'm also planning a day-trip into Mexico, which will be my first trip since I was in diapers (three years ago... just kidding, it's been a couple decades). My dad once bragged to me that he drug me across the border with him just to distract the border police; I like to embellish the story by imagining the dope actually hidden in my Huggies. Huggies? Smugglies?

The only things I'm bringing back are some fake Oakley sunglasses and a few gallons of local-brewed Tequila (which I've heard makes exceptional engine degreaser). I'm not pretty enough to warrant abduction, but I'll be certain to alert my caretakers before I cross the border so don't worry. I am planning to stick to English as much as possible, mostly to conduct my own experiment into how many people try to rip-off the dumb American tourist who can't speak Spanish. Should be fun.

And yes, I am really eager to spend Christmas with my family in Elko. My mom knows the correct colors, smells, and music to spiral my thoughts back 20-years to the fondest childhood memories I possess. Gifts mean nothing. The intangible family vibe hits you like an anvil in the chest the first time the Christmas tree lights flicker.

Hooray for the unexpected!

Hewwo weaders.

Still battling the cold, still waking up each morning to find that the little viruses have up and relocated to another region of my body.

It's Thursday, the week is almost over again. I was scheduled to head to Mountain Home today with my work compatriots, but opted to sit at home (yet again) and eat soup and cry into my keyboard. Oh, awesome news here: I took my car down to an auto shop to get the brakes checked (as prompted by the high-viz BRAKE light on my dash)... turns out that the brake master cylinder is destroyed and I'll have to buy a new one. Retail: $320. Labor: $75. Good thing I'm loaded with cash or this would be a tough one to remedy... oh, wait.

Little tight on cash flow, and here I am skipping work due to illness. Ya hoo! All my standard cold remedies continue to fail, but I'll keep at it today. Garlic soup, garlic tea, garlic and ginger puree, one of them is bound to work (by the way, Lauren LOVES being around me when I'm sick). Maybe today I can figure out a way to work from home, or to job hunt, or something; I just have a hard time being absolutely lethargic and falling victim to bad day-time TV programming. Gravity's Rainbow, the book I'm involved in right now, only offers 30-minute windows of entertainment because it's so freaking hard to keep up with. Special thanks to Tom Crawford for introducing me to Thomas Pynchon's works of literature.... his books are a mental workout, and in my sickness they offer no solace.

Goodbye. My garlic is calling.

Le Bois? Nope

So let me put this in perspective: Boise has a squirrel infestation problem. In my backyard alone, there are six squirrels vying for residence in three trees. Instead of watching the morning news, Lauren and I have taken interest in observing Gladiator-like competitions, in which the squirrels hurl each other from atop full-grown oak and fir trees. Nothing complements good coffee like squirrel wrestling.

But I digress, the point is that these little buggers have no natural predator in Boise (aside from the aqua-tred-clad rims of Toyota 4-Runners). I'm not against the procreation of squirrels, mind you... but seeing three rodents simultaneously inverted in a single tree... dangling by their rear feet on the ends of the thinnest branches (like upside-down fur-clad Christmas ornaments)... one begins to wonder when the population flux will decrease. Boise is called the City of Trees, but if there are two squirrels per tree in Boise, perhaps it should be called the City of Squirrels. I don't know the French name for that... something like Le Squirre'?

Other news: the weather is terrible. I got all duded-up yesterday and went for a 2-hour bike ride in the rain. Yay! As I've stated before, however, the line between Tough-Guy and Sick-Guy is ever-so-thin, and unfortunately I crossed it yesterday. I had a great ride, but was soaked for too long and awoke with a sore throat this a.m. Paired with the time change, the weather at this time of the year in Boise (sorry, in Squirrelville) really tests one's resilience to depression: dark, gloomy skies and limited hours of sunlight. I suppose that everyone in the U.S. experiences this, but feeling exclusive lets me justify my rants and whining.

Such is life. I'm off to Vibrations, then to my MBA class, the hopefully to a solid night's sleep back at the pad. Thank goodness for the Grocery Outlet: 48 cough drops for $1.25. I'm working through 'em.

Ping Pong

I used to wonder if I was manic-depressant, or sometimes just manic-manic... sometimes depressant-depressant. Now I have to wonder if I simply lacked a stable, constant source of the right music.

Does music dictate the mood, or does your mood decide the music? I think you can force feed your emotions. Go ahead, wake up on the wrong side of the bed, but start your morning with the right blend of goofy-ass indie rock, or poppy-random techno, and your synapses have no option but to start sparking in a lighter shade of electric blue. Try it: pre-load something into your stereo (MP3, CD, I don't care)... then break the rules by blasting yourself senseless right when you get up.

My mother is reading this right now, assuredly picturing Bob in a panic at 4:45am while she skitters about the living room, electric-sliding to Paul Oakenfold's latest electronic remix of Elvis Presley's "Rubberneckin".... OK, so maybe you have to change your plans if you live with someone else. But hey maybe you can force-feed their emotions, too (DISCLAIMER: I can not take responsibility for adverse reactions).

The point? There is none. I suppose I wanted to finally write a post that didn't scour and examine the depth of my soul. I mean, come on, if I continue the trend of my writing topics I'd have to rename my blog to something more like: Melancholy-R-Us, Fear and Loathing in Boise, A Life More Somber, or more simply... Waaaahhhh!!!

So have a good day. If you're already on the wrong path, I suggest rocking out to The Decemberists' song Sporting Life, or Swayzek's song Ping Pong. Dig it.

The Infamous Jimmy-D

Two years ago, naw, let’s start further back. 1998, June, there you go. My mother and father were finalizing a divorce. My father was already living in a fifth-wheel in the back yard and my mom was on vacation in Alaska with her parents. Papers signed, my dad slipped further off the deep end (he was already submerged). My mom, conversely, rallied herself to survive the lonely sanity-threatening single apartment she decided to call home. I was stuck in the middle, if there were such a place, and chose to live with my friend Brian on Oak Street.

I saw my dad a lot that first summer, though it was on his terms and his time frame. The visits got more sporadic, less frequent, and less valuable. Upon the completion of my first year at BSU we averaged one visit every three months, a thorn particularly painful in my maturing-man’s side. I was anxious to share new perspectives and dreams fermenting in my young-adult skull.

It used to blow me away when, after three months sans-communication with my father, he would don the attitude that no time had passed. He acted as if my life was on pause and he held the remote control, and reinforced the premise by dominating our few conversations with boasts and proclamations of wealth, women… the moons of artificial happiness on his horizon. I was in college studying engineering, living a good distance from home, racing bikes, breaking hearts and having mine broken. He never asked.

I took that personally. James was so wrapped up in his endeavors that mine meant nothing to him. Straightforward enough, right? Things cracked and I put my foot down. We went two years without seeing one another. He called me once in June of 2004 from the pay phone in Ely County Jail, to ask if I could computerize some sketches he was working on. Sure, ass. Sure.

OK, modern day. Calvin’s spent a few grand in therapy and medication to deduce his complete effect on my life. I decided it was time to see him again. I wanted to see how he would handle things after such an interval apart. In addition, he knew of my troubles with an eating disorder, and I was curious if he’d even acknowledge the subject. I won’t lie; I wanted to see his status: from 1998 to 2000 he aged 15 years (Jame’s Father Time goes by the name Mr. Methamphetamine). At that rate, he should appear 83 by now, give or take five years. If he is to die, I’d like to have some forewarning from his appearance.

I walked into La Fiesta Mexican restaurant, my sister and girlfriend in tow, and immediately spotted him at the bar with a mid-twenties girlfriend. He saw us enter, wiped a fresh sip of blended margarita from his lips, and slid off the barstool towards us. He had been drinking, but wasn’t drunk. Most notably he wasn’t tweaking (tough-guy street talk for meth abuse). Now that I think about it, can you actually get drunk after 40 years of alcoholism? Although I didn’t notice at the time, he neither embraced me nor shook my hand; instead he avoided eye contact with any of us and boasted on his “being early for once”. Nice work.

The dinner went smoothly, the dialogue skimming safely along the glassy surface of a deep, dark pool of issues. His apparent sobriety (from meth) meant there’d be less talk of the police, his bar brawls, or anyone trying to repress his self-proclaimed rock star lifestyle. Just like old times, he didn’t acknowledge missing a beat of my life; I had to forcefully interject to talk about myself, interrupting the otherwise incessant stream of boasts and declarations. Similar to visits in the past, I became quite melancholy; though this time my reasons were different.

During the two-hours of dialogue (monologue?), I felt no animosity at his egocentric disposition, I felt pity. Pity. Pitying my father is the saddest emotion I’ve ever suffered toward him. This man sitting beside me was trying in earnest to avoid reality, fearing that a lull in the conversation would allow one of us to mention a painful detail of our lives.

I realized this, and noted the incredible breadth of topics that he was avoiding. Beyond life’s troubling issues, it hurts my father to hear about our wonderful experiences, too. Heather and Lauren and I remained quiet for the majority of the dinner, much to his relief. To hear of our lives, our passions, would remind him of how much he was missing. He was scared, I could tell, and I pitied him enough to grant him serenity.

That’s amazingly sad. The night concluded on a high note when Lauren and I accompanied him back to the hotel to say goodbye. He called me over to the bed and began flipping through binders detailing numerous architectural-type drawings he’d completed during the jail time. Despite years of chemical abuse, his latent intellectual potential protruded in crisp three-dimensional lines from the sketches. He kept dominating the conversation, hugged me goodbye, and then watched briefly as Lauren and I paced down the hallway out of his sight. Pity.

Idle

Sci-fi feelings, philosophical mind-set.. I've recently spent so many hours here at work, staring at this glowing panel with its comforting digital hum, that out of habit I returned on my day off to waste time. Life is good. I managed to squeeze a nap in roughly two hours ago, and judging from my mental state I could swear I am still sleeping. In fact, maybe I am dreaming about blogging; I guess we'll see when I check it later.

Oh yes, so life is good. Busy, but good. Turns out that I'm poised to graduate next May, which is a mind-blower. Calvin Allan, M.E. Spooky. In the meantime I have to pass this grueling MBA class in which I am enrolled. I never dreamt my GPA would be shredded by a business class... of 100 total points possible in the course, I missed seven on my first paper. What are the odds of missing less than four points in the remaining six weeks of class? Odds... I'm good at statistics, but apparently lousy at business topics. No more four-point for Calvin. Oh, wait, does it matter?

Work is riveting, absolutely riveting (wicked-extreme sarcasm). Last Tuesday I spent 3.5 hours in Mountain Home learning the ins and outs of a toe truck / wrecker winch system. Why? To accurately draft a User's Manual, of course. If you have never written technical documents let me give you a synopsis: take every urge to write creatively and throw it out the window. Clear, Concise, and C... I forget the final C. Crap. You get the point. You want to use the smallest variation of nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc., to get the job done. Any superfluous language is frowned upon. Hooray!

Outside of the U and work, Lauren and I are doing awesome. We snuck down to Elko last weekend for a few days to visit my family. The g-parents were in town so I got some great time in with everyone. I have been meaning to write about my experiences, namely my dinner spent with the infamous James D. Allan, but time waits for no one and already a week has passed. Those thoughts need to be transcribed and perhaps this week will allow me some more personal time.

Lauren and I celebrated two years' dating last Monday, October 10. The time has gone so quickly, indicative of true exuberance in someone's company. We catch ourselves referring to last Fall's activities, soon correcting one another that it was two Fall's ago... the blurring of the years is an acceptable side effect of a fulfilling relationship. I dig it.

Sadness

An acquaintance and fellow racer of mine, Alan Butler, was killed in a traffic incident late last night. He widows a wife and eight-month old baby.

Such a weird, weird world. Cruel at times, to say the least. A week ago a friend, Scott White, took a header during a bike ride and nearly paralyzed himself from the neck down. He's OK, though in a halo for the next two months. The incident destroyed any notion I had of "karma", as Scott is hands-down the most genuine and generous person I know.

Now this happens, reinforcing the fallacy of karma. I spoke with Alan on Monday, here in this very hotel lounge in Las Vegas, Nevada. We were both cramming some continental breakfast before heading to the "circus". I later saw him in his new role as a sales representative for Reynolds Composites, smiling and fielding questions from the gaggles of retailers at Interbike. We chatted, I introduced him to a friend I was with, and we agreed to call one another later that day. I sent him an email that evening regarding a frame he wanted to sell me.

I did not see him this morning for breakfast, and when I passed by the Reynold's Composites booth again - no Alan. I smiled at his fellow workmates and assumed he was out to lunch. This afternoon a mutual friend told me that he was hit by a car while trying to cross The Strip. Apparently Alan and a friend were walking back to the hotel, Alan stepped off the curb to cross and his friend Mark stepped off in pursuit. Mark, however, glanced to the side in time to see a car that wasn't going to stop. Mark hopped back, tried to grab Alan's shirt, but in a surreal horror-flick moment he missed and his fingers closed around the hot desert air. Allan was swiped away and likely dead before he hit the ground.

Mark had driven down late last night to spend the evening with Alan and some others. Mark was a dear friend of Alan's, and my strongest prayers go out to he and Alan's family. I don't really understand this all, sometimes.

Vegas Paradise

Greetings from Interbike 2005, Las Vegas, Nevada. 949 exhibitors and roughly 10,000 spectators, all passionate about the cycling, health, and transportation industries.

I'm caught in a freaking nightmare. What I anticipated to be a trip to paradise turned sour on Day two... here I am on Day Four loathing my travelmate and appalled at the industry. Trade shows are nothing but a cluster of jabber-mouthed salesmen: buy this try this eat this see this ride this. My room mate is the most insolent of all, and the dynamic is worsened by our monetary bind to one another.

A month ago he mentioned Interbike, and I responded I would love to go. Hell, I'm nine credits away from my master's degree in mechanical engineering, and an international bike show is like Disneyland for an educated cycling enthusiast. I'd been helping this gent with some software tutorials, amongst other things, and he wanted to express his appreciation by bringing me along. Before I knew it he was claiming me as an employee of his, dragging my name into the muck by butchering my credentials and insulting my character.

I do not know. What I have just written, it does not and can not convey my frustration. This show is an ideal environment for me to scope possible future employers, but I'm being introduced and foreshadowed by an immature car salesman with no tact, business sense, or consideration for others. I have met a few individuals here from which employment may blossom, but overall I am wrapping up this trip negative and tired.

Wah. heck of an update, considering I have not written in so long.

Weekend Evening

It's Saturday night. Just hanging out at home, logging a bit of personal time and loving the sub-90-degree evening weather. Lauren and I returned to Boise this afternoon after a quick jaunt down to Salt Lake City to attend a wedding.

Danny Ortega and I met each other around age eight, perhaps nine, as a result of our fathers working on the same shift at a gold mine in Elko. I won't go into the history of our friendship, but somehow we have managed to let eight years slip by without visiting one another... without evening corresponding. Enough time for me to go to college, to Spain, to Elko to California to Boise to Seattle to Boise again for school. Sadly I do not know his path, aside from pursuing his dream of throwing clay and casting a golden relationship with Heidi, whom he married yesterday.

On the drive down, Lauren asked me about my relationship with Danny, which I defined as "one of those soul connections that never fades, regardless of time or miles apart". He and I formed a bond through hours of trampoline and video game time, and I felt robbed when his family returned to Salt Lake City for personal health reasons during our junior high years. That fairytale definition of the impenetrable friendship seldom exists, and as I spoke to Lauren I found myself worrying whether or not the connection did survive; what if too much time had passed and we both had changed too much?

I could not believe my apprehension as we walked down the dirt drive, toward the humble tucked-away home in Midvale, Utah. I realized I would likely see him from afar, perhaps catch his eye, but remain unrecognized through his filtered haze of wedding jitters/stress/sleep deprivation. I did not expect to see him come strolling out the front door to mingle amongst the surrounding family, smiling and habitually readjusting his glasses in the same style he always did. I wormed my way through the family, stuck out my hand and waited for his eyes to register my presence. There was no handshake; instead a mutually initiated strong embrace between two men; two men who last interacted as two boys in an entirely different phase of life.

The wedding proceeded in a surreal, magical blur. Danny and Heidi spent an entire year fashioning beautiful metal structures, string lights and lamps, amassing unique chandeliers and lights and throwing personalized bowls for the guests to take home in remembrance of the ceremony. I did manage to speak with Danny for a brief spell before we returned to the hotel, and the conversation was light and did not touch on the hollow regret of not keeping in better contact. He was so happy, so happy. I have not felt that vicarious happiness for any friend before.

Lauren and I returned at 5:00pm, having jetted home to attend sister Drew's going-away-to-college party at The Reef downtown. I opted out at the last minute, feeling a strange sense of something unresolved or neglected. I suppose this was it, the need to digest the experience and resolve a strange melancholic mood. These moments instill such perspective... you begin to wonder why you pursue certain avenues and catch a brief glimpse of the threads running through the years; threads of contentment and satisfaction and that strong, nauseatingly powerful sensation in your gut reminding you that the relationships, the love given and received is what substantiates our existence.

The sun has finally set and the summertime noises warrant investigation. I'm headed out for a walk. Thanks for listening. -Calvino