Down With People

I don’t really remember what Up With People is/was, but it seems like it was some motivational program we attended in elementary school.  I have no idea if it’s still around.  This post has nothing to do with that program, other than rather than lifting up folks, my aim is to disparage the following folks.  I’m starting my own program of degradation called Down With People.  My buddy the Sheriff should love it. 

I think the following three personality traits are often, maybe even usually, assembled together in the same group of folks, but there may be some stragglers out there who have one or two of these traits, but not all three.  Regardless of whether you have just one or all three of these, I’m currently sticking my tongue out at you and making the thppppppppppppt noise.  Consider yourself humiliated.  I hereby declare myelf worthy to judge you based upon my general superiority in all things human. 

1)    Camping vs. “Camping”.   Real men, like myself, camp.  Real women do it, too.  The rest of the pansies of the world “camp”.  Camping involves a tent, sleeping bags, minimal, packed-in food and drink and not a lot else.  Preferably, it involves a location that is a goodly hike away from (1) your car, (2) the nearest road, (3) modern facilities, including, but not limited to those of the restroom variety, and (4) preferably, but not always, lots of other people.  “Camping” is pseudo-camping.  It involves any number of the following – a cabin, an RV, a pop-up trailer, sleeping in your car, a TV, electric lights, bathrooms, lots of people, lots of cars, lots of radio music, air mattresses, coolers full of food and drink, and gas grills. 

Now, I’ve got a family, including a wife and a 5 year old daughter.  Unfortuntely, my life involves more “camping” than camping these days, which is still better than no “camping” at all.  I also insist on maintaining some sliver of semblance of camping by using a tent.  Sure, our car is usually less than 15 yards away, we sleep on air on an air mattress, have a cooler full of food and drinks and are often close enough to throw a frisbee and hit 5 other tents, but we’re in a tent dammit.  It’s like the middle aged guy fighting the onslaught of baldness by rolling with the combover.  I’ve got plenty of hair, but I’m going down fighting on the camping front.  (To my wife’s credit, she is nice and willing about letting me go real backpacking/camping a few times a year, and will even endure it for a trip of her own on occasion.) So, I say Down with “Campers”.

2) Sloth crossers vs. those who quicken their pace a bit.  I work in Boulder these days.  It’s a place I really like.  One nice thing about Boulder is they’ve done a nice job of making sure pedestrians and bikers have a well estabished right of way when crossing the street, not just in the missle of downtown.  When driving, you have to be observant because people here enjoy walking and riding and there is a much greater chance of someone using crosswalks.  Thankfully, many of the crosswalks have signs with flashing lights to let motorists know that someone is crossing.  The only issue I have is that some pedestrians celebrate their right to cross with a little too much slothfulness.  I’m not asking this folks to immitate Usain Bolt while crossing the street, but if cars are waiting, it seems courteous to at least add a little more pace to their step.  I don’t generally break into a jog while crossing the street, but I walk a little quicker when I know someone is waiting.  I’m nicer than my wife, so when folks cross slowly in front of me, I just stare at them and cuss under my breath while waiting patiently.  Jess will zoom in front of folks if they’ve exceded their deadline for getting acrosss.  It’s a little frightening and smacks of big city life, but I suppose it gets her message across.  Down with the Sloth Crossers.

3) Change Lovers vs. the apathetics.  A couple pulls up to a drive through, at which time the drive through attendant tells them their meal will cost $12.47.  At this moment in time, people will react in one of two very distinctive ways. 

One group will happily reach for their wallet and pullout a ten and a five, or perhaps a ten and three ones – whatever they’ve got that works.  After paying for the meal, they receive some loose change – we’ll say 53 cents for simplicity – which they happily toss into the center console, the arm rest, the cup holder, the “ashtray” or any other location taking approxiamtely .02 seconds to access. 

The second group will acknowledge the $12.47 due, reach for the wallet where, ideally, they have exactly 12 dollars, but the paper money isn’t generally the crux of the issue for these folks.  If they only have a ten and a five, not to worry.  The real issue with this group is the loose change.   This group takes an odd sense of pride in being able to assemble the precise amount of loose change required to complete the transaction without receiving any loose change in return.  So, after gathering the requisite paper money, this group will access the collection of change in the center console, organized neatly by denomination, of course. Sometimes, the situation may call for accessing the secondary supply of coins found in their purse or change holder, or in the unfortunate instances in which they are in some slacker’s car other than their own, scrounging around the floorboard for an improperly stored quarter,  two dimes,  and two pennies.  Whatever it takes to make an organized, exact exchange of money and food.

Being firmly established in the first group, I can only surmise what motivates members of the second group.  I though perhaps it was an overriding dislike of the particular historical images on our nation’s coins, but there seems to be too much overlap there, with some of the images on coins also appearing on paper money.   Maybe there’s a feeling that too many coins will weigh down the vehicle making it unwieldy and inefficient, negatively affecting gas mileage and whatnot.  I’m not too sure.  This habit shouldn’t really bother me, it’s just evidence of a level of anal retentive behavior that is in such strong contrast to my own lifestyle that I find it subtly annoying.  My wife is an occasional Change Lover, so I should ask her, I suppose.  However, since she isn’t a consistent member of this group, I think I’m safe saying Down with the Change Lovers. 

 I hope everyone has learned a little bit today about what it takes to be as cool as I am – real camping, courteous street crossing and a lessez faire attitude towards loose change.  I’ll try to present another lesson in the coming days or weeks and if we’re all lucky, by the end of the year, you can all reach the level where I find myself.

Fly Your Flag

If only I could take a week off of work whenever I felt like it.

A while back, my wife Jess told me about some folks who lived on a cul-de-sac somewhere in Texas.  Like many folks, they had a flag holder in front of their house.  Apparently, they had a fun group of neighbors and liked to have folks over for drinks and whatnot.   So, whenever they were ready for a party, they would fly a party flag from their flagholder.  We live in a neighborhood now with a bunch of folks who seem to like hanging out, so I’m considering employing a party flag once we get a little more settled here. 

As I considered this, I’ve thought about other flags I might consider using, just to keep the neighborhood apprised of our household status. 

Perhaps we can have Strife Flag.  This flag would be black, with the symbol to the left (thanks to Genki Sushi in Hawaii) in the middle.   This flag means that I’ve been a condescending a-hole, failed to complete some requested task or otherwise caused family strife.  Entering our house at this time would be like rolling into a courtroom in the midst of a murder trial.  It’s a no go for friendly visitors.

 

 

The next flag is the F You Flag.  It is red with the middle finger displayed prominently with a bright yellow background.  While the Strife Flag indicates internal strife, the F You Flag symbolizes external strife.  A little message to the neighbors when they’ve been particulary dickish in our general direction.  We’ve met our neighbors and don’t anticipate using this flag, but one never knows.  If we don’t get our bushes trimmed soon, it could come into play with any HOA loving neighbors.  I would anticipate smaller flags which hang from the bottom of this flag with the names of the specific uninvited neighbors. 

 

 

This flag is the Occupied Flag – brown with the symbol to the left.  You are welcome to enter, but one or both of us are otherwise occupied.  Given the frequency of this normal bodily occurence, this flag is not flown with every visit to the restroom, but is instead reserved for partiularly volatile and/or odorous situations, so you are entering at your own risk.  Expect this flag to be flying proudly after we’ve been to have hot wings at BW3, after a meal of too old leftovers or when Marley’s brought home some unfortunate stomach bug. 

 

 

This flag, flown on Saturdays during the Fall, is flown as both an invitation and a caution.  Any and all visitors are welcome to join in the game watching and beer drinking.  However, folks entering the household are warned that strong, adult language is likely to be used for the foreseeable future when the Aggies are playing.  Also, visitors may be exposed to “whooping” and other strange habits we were indoctrinated with while at A&M.  Sorry.

 

 A green flag with the symbol to the left, the Yack Flag, may mean several things.  It most likely means that we flew the Party Flag yesterday and now one or more members of the Cook household are performing the ritual to the left.  I am a founding member of Team Puke, along with Don Taco, and occasionally wear the team colors.  Like the Occupied Flag, this flag may also indicate that Marley has brought home an unfortunate illness from school.  If both the Occupied Flag and Yack Flag are flying, stay far, far away.  Nothing good can come of your visit.

 

We hope the neighbors appreciate our regular updates of our status.  We have one very nice older lady who is the neighbrhood sentry, and this will at least make her job far easier.

Now Starring at QB…

So, the latest big recruit at QB is this one named wonder (how pretentious is that?) known as Jesus.  He plays ball at Nazareth High School (not the town in the QB breeding ground of Pennsylania).  Apprently this guy isn’t your prototypical NFL, or even college QB.  He stands about 5′7″, weighs in a 120 and sports long curly hair and a full beard.  But the scouts say the intangibles are beyond description.  Although I haven’t seen the tape, this phenom can apparently run a play which results in the entire left side of the defense being faked to the left and the entire right side of the defense being faked to the right, with the middle of the field opening up like, well, the Red Sea, after which the whole offense walks to the opposite end zone for a touchdown.  The coaches have named the play “The Miracle” and so far, Nazareth High is undefeated for the season. 

I jest.  And blashpeme.  And I likely end up cheering for the Gehenna Devildogs when my time is done here.  But, I fear this is where the ultimate college QB profile is headed.  Listen, I’m not opposed to wholesome college quarterbacks.  As the father of a daughter in kindergarten, I should hope that in 13 years every one of her future fellow students, including the star quarterback, continues to fit the mold of Tim Tebow, Colt McCoy and Sam Bradford, but I’m ready to declare enough is enough. 

I just read an article about USC’s new freshman sensation at QB, Matt Barkley.  SI has already dubbed this kid a young Joe Montana, while simultaneously discussing his devout Christian background, his high school charity which raised $100,000 for injured Marines and his winter trip during his senior year of high school to volunteer at an orphanage in South Africa.  During USC’s first spring practice, this kid actually levitated from the sideline to his position behind center.  I’ve heard the crowd went nuts. 

The sparking clean personal lives of McCoy, Tebow and Bradford were discussed ad nauseum last season as they all made their push for the Heisman.  Each had his own well publicized story of how he was working on saving the world one starving orphan at a time.  Again, I make light, but it became a little overwhelming.  We need some balance.

So, here’s my wish.  I’m holding out for next season, as this season appears to be a forgone conclusion.  I’m hoping next season college football will roll out a handful of star quarterbacks vying for the Heisman who all fit the following unviversal profile.

John Clinton Smithson – QB – Johnsonville, NC – 6′4″ 225 lbs.

High School Career:

Freshman – As a freshman, Smithson wowed the Johnsville community with both his QB skills and off the field prowess.  After making the varsity squad, Smithson started after just 3 games and proceeded to set various and sundry district records.  He also reached a remarkable freshman achievement by nailing senior head cheerleader Mitzi Blower below the home bleachers just 45 minutes after Johnsonville claimed the district title over rival Pine Bluff. 

Sophomore – Smithson continued to reset district records with both his feet and his arm and even set several state single game passing records.  However, following a shocking loss to neighboring Oakwood, Smithson set an undocumented Hereford County record by shotgunning 17 Bud Lights in just under 4 minutes.  He spent the remainder of the evening spewing like a Rain Bird sprinkler, but the record was nonetheless made “official” after Smithson spent the early morning hours sleeping it off in the median of Richfield Blvd.

Junior – Smithson was off to yet another phenominal season before spraining his ankle in the 4th game against up and coming Cedar Springs.  He was required to sit out the next 3 games to recover from his injury, during which time he developed an addiction to hydrocodone and lesbian pornography.  Although Smithson was able to overcome his issues with painkillers, his taste for porngraphy has continued to mushroom, while branching into some “interesting” genres involving farm animals and very large women. 

Senior – Smithson shattered every meaningful record in NC Class V state history, was named 1st team All American and accepted a scholarship offer to play for the National Champion Texas A&M Aggies (this is my blog).  Smithson also set a national career record by deflowering 72% of the female population of Johnsonville High, including the entire cheerleading squad during one record shattering night at RB Rob Gunnison’s house and all but one member of the drill team over a 6 week span (Janice Roberts had unfortunately contracted some sort of disturbing infection during that time).

I fear if we don’t stop the current trend, we’re going to end up with quarterbacks who refuse to engage in any violent physical contact with the other team, intentionally throw interceptions as acts of charity and take extended breaks during each game for quiet conversation with a higher power.  Come to think of it, this sounds a lot like what I’ve seen from A&M QB’s over the past decade.  Who knew that all this time, A&M was actually leading the way in developing the new college QB profile.  Thank god we’ve got Smithson on the way.

Violations of the No iPod Pact

This is a subject that seems to divide the masses.  Or perhaps it just divides my group of friends who like to harass and denegrate each other in a way that can only be compared to politicians or chimpanzees throwing poo at each other.  It’s what we do and we do it well. 

I need to issue a disclaimer up front, before I’m judged too harshly by any of you folks. Consider the following a fairly brief appearance of Overexplainer Bart, who is one of the many personas alluded to in the title of this blog.  I like the outdoors a lot.  Most activities I like to do are outdoors.  And I like solitude and tranquility most of the time when I’m outdoors, as opposed to traffic and crowds, unless I know it’s going to be a social atmosphere.  So, generally speaking I’m actually in the No iPod camp of this debate, but I have some exceptions, and it’s those exceptions that have caused me some grief. 

There are two notable times when I like to wear my iPod while outdoors.  The reason for each is totally different from the other.  First, I like to wear my iPod sometimes when I’m bouldering outside. For those who don’t know what bouldering is, it’s a type of climbing on large boulders, usually at least 12 feet high, on up to highball boulders which can be 20-40 feet.  So, these are shorter climbs than most sport or traditional climbs, but usually more intense.  The other big difference is that rather than using ropes, protection is provided by large, thick, portable pads placed below the climber.  The picture to the left is an example.  With no ropes, the climber is on his own, and can climb completely alone if he wants to go without a spotter.  I occasionally like to listen to my iPod while I’m bouldering.  If I’m alone, it’s no big deal, but if I’m with somebody, I still like to wear it sometimes, but I keep the volume really low.  I like music when I’m bouldering because it allows me to “get out of my head” sometimes when I’m really challenged by a climb.  I usually like pretty mellow muic for this – just something to listen to and chill out.  If it’s too upbeat, it tends to defeat that purpose. 

The other time when I like to listen to my iPod has caused me more grief.  I like to listen to my iPod when I’m snowboarding, even when I’m with friends.  A few of my friends knock this, because they say it stifles conversation and the social scene of skiing/boarding.  I disagree, because I keep the volume very low so that I can hear the folks sitting around me and folks coming from behind while I’m riding.  I’m not saying it has zero effect on what I’m able to hear, but it’s not like I’m blasting it.  I keep it at the lowest level possible where I can hear the music.  I like to listen to music while snowboarding, because, since I only ride at resorts at this point in my skill level, it’s genearlly not secluded anyway, so I’m not losing any tranquility, and to me, snowboarding sort of has a rhythm to it and music seems like a good accompanyment.  I listen to all kinds of stuff while riding, but probably reggae more than anything else. 

So, apologies to my amigos.  I’m not trying to douche it up or anything.  Just groovin’.  I hope you can oblige.

Tininkling on Fabulous Fridays

This isn’t another post about my incontinent dog. It’s not about potty training. It’s about dancing.  I’ve heard about some NFL players who have taken ballet to improve their balance and footwork.  Well, seeing the wisdom of such an idea at a young age, and knowing the fancy footwork that being an attorney entails, I learned the ancient Filipino art of tininkling.

As a kid, I went to a really good and fun elementary school called Windsor Park. It is one of my biggest hopes for Marley that she is as fortunate as I am with where she attends elementary school.

One of the many unique things abut Windsor Park was that we had a program called Fabulous Friday. Fabulous Friday was basically elective classes running for an hour or so on several Fridays that involved learning something not normally part of the school curriculum. The classes ranged from learning guitar or ukelele to various arts and crafts to making and launching model rockets and everything in between. It was really a great concept and I and many of my friends still have hobbies and interests borne from Fabulous Fridays.

Amongst all the cool and interesting Fridays I had, few stand out like a class I took called tininkling. I took tininkling in the 4th or 5th grade I think, which sounds pretty late to be taking a class that sounds like something founded in the urinary arts. I do think it was around this time that I got busted in the boys room for seeing how far we could stand from the urinal and still “make it”, but that’s a completely unrelated story.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t choose to sign up for tininkling. Much like college electives, Fabulous Fridays included some classes that were extremely popular, others with a smaller number of devoted followers and a few that most of us hoped we didn’t get “stuck with”. They had to limit enrollment for the most popular classes, and based on some system (I don’t recall if it was random or some sort of priority) as a young boy you were either happily involved in model rocketry or some similar class, or you suffered through Art with Beans, Making Dreamcatchers or somesuch.

Tininkling is perhaps best desrcibed as Filipino jumproping using sticks of bamboo. The sticks don’t go over anyone’s head like a jumprope, but are instead banged on blocks of wood and together close to the ground while other folks jump and dance in between them. It’s almost as “interesting” as it sounds, which is makes it undersandable that our tininkling group was invited to perform at some community event in the “big” downtown colliseum. Really.

I think we took turns as either stick bangers (I’m sure there was a more technical name for this role) or dancers. I guess it was one of those things that was unusual and not part of the normal local culture such that someone decided the population of Corpus Christi would find it entertaining to watch young kids hop between sticks of bamboo. Ah well, maybe it beats kite flying, but it was surely a close battle.

I don’t have much more to say about tininkling.  In fact, I’m not sure there’s much more that should be said by anyone about tininkling.  Much like the wasp incident desribed in a previous post, this wasn’t a proud moment in my life.  But if I’m ever stranded in The Philipines and held hostage by the rebel forces, I guess I can break out my tininkling skills.  It’ll either save my life, cause me to be accosted by a gay Filipino rebel or if I’m lucky, put quickly out of my misery.

A Shout Out to the Outernationalists

I don’t have a great deal to say today.  I’m aiming for a short day and getting home early to start the long weekend.  I might try to to write once this weekend, but more likely it’ll be next week before I return.

But, I did take a look at this tracking program that shows how many folks visit my blog each day.  It doesn’t seem to be terribly accurate, as the numbers are substantially different all around from the numbers WordPress provides.  Anyway, for the past 7 days 7.7% were from Canada and 3.8% were Italian.  Last week, I noticed about the same number of canucks, no Italians, but something like 2.7% were Polish. 

So, I’m huge.  I’m international, bitches.  Ha!  I’m not sure why folks from overseas are checking out my blog, but it’s an interesting curiosity if nothing else.  And I dig foreign countries.  I did mention that Marley watched the Depeche Mode concert in Milan in one post, so maybe that drew the Italy hits.  I have no idea on Poland.  Perhaps the canucks appreciate my occasional anti-conservative rants.  Good on ya, eh. 

My only request is that henceforth, any foreign readers drop a comment.  Let me know why you’re reading, how the weather is or what kind of beer you’re drinking, at least. 

Until later then.

I am a Giant Poon aka Of Wasps and Screaming Like a Girl

There’s nothing wrong with recognizing and admitting one’s weaknesses, no? 

Our new house has a nice, good sized deck on the front, and a smaller, decent sized deck on the back.  The deck on the front is perfect for our patio table and four chairs, and has a cool tree growing up through it.  I imagine we’ll eat out there a good bit.  The deck out back is good for the grill and just hanging out.  Both decks have a decent amount of shubbery and/or vines growing around them.  Generally speaking, this is a good thing as it provides some additional privacy and shade. 

However, the foliage is a little overgrown at present.  I’m not talking Brazilian rainforest, but the stuff needs to be cut back some before we start finding spider monkeys hanging out at the patio table demanding fruit and whatnot. 

Here’s the problem, though.  I noticed yesterday as I was out on the front deck that there were a goodly number of bees and wasps buzzing about.   I’m sort of okay with bees, but my image of wasps is pretty accurately represented by the art in the poster to the left.  But I’ve got good cause.  So, let me tell you a little story.

I used to work as a camp counselor at a coastal ecology camp down on the coast of Texas.  One night each week we would take our campers to stay at a wildlife refuge away from camp, which was really a cool experience pretty much every time.  Well, as part of our early evening activities with the campers, we would have a counselor hunt.  Most of the counselors would get all “cammoed up” and hide from the campers.  After giving the counselors a good 10-15 minutes to hide, the campers are then supposed to find the counselors, or more often, the counselors just scare the bejesus out of the campers as they walk unwittingly by. 

Well, being the enthusiastic counselor that I was, I would get really cammoed up – mud on the face, camo pants and shirt, camo hat with twigs and stuff on top.  I think we went to some army surplus store and had a field day.  Anyway, I would get all dressed up and assume my role of frightening young children. 

On one particular evening,  I found the perfect bush just beside the caliche road wear some of the kids would surely be walking.   I got huddled down in this bush, doing my best sniper in Vietnam imitation and began my wait.  Roughly 30 seconds later, I heard an odd buzzing on the ground, immediately followed by a few of bolts of lightning to the right side of my neck, just below my ear.  Having experienced wasps a few times before, I quickly realized that I had chosen an already occupied bush for hiding. 

I reacted like any adult would while in earshot of 3 dozen schoolage children.  I leaped out of the bush, swatting vigorously at my neck while shouting “motherfucker, son of bitch, goddamnit” at a pitch that can only be described as efeminate.  In fact, three of my counselor friends came running to my location and, looking somewhat confused, asked if that was me, which I thought should’ve been readily apparent.  The problem was, as my friends informed me, was that they all thought it was a camper from the tone and pitch of the yelling.  This was not a proud moment in my life. 

Anyway, after this adventure, I headed back to where we were all camping and for the next 5 hours, I would get really dizzy and throw up about every 15 minutes.  It was wonderful.  To this day, I have no idea if I had an allergic reaction or if it was just a result of being stung by a few wasps so close to my ear and that affected my equilibrium. 

So, in an effort to avoid offending the neighbors with strong language and embarassing myself by screaming like a girl, I’ve admitted that I do not wish to participate in trimming the bushes, as I’m fairly confident that some number of the wasps visiting our decks reside in said bushes.  So, I will gladly sacrifice whatever cash it takes to hire someone else to complete that task.  In the meantime, I’ll stand at a safe distance and hope I get to appreciate someone else’s show when they get stung.

West Texas is the Best Place on the Planet

I’ve got a good friend who recently moved to a small west Texas town.  There’s all kinds of material here, but in the interest of Don Taco’s livelihood, I’ll limit this discussion to the following.  Since moving to this small town, Don Taco has regaled our group of friends with stories of weekly golf tournaments with groups of girls that follow them around the golf course and other adventures. This morning, Don Taco shared with us his account of opening day (dove season) yesterday. 

It seems Don Taco and his two buddies slaughtered the birds, leading Don Taco to suffer from a sore shoulder and jaw, because he probably shot at least 150 times yesterday.  Now, by my calculation, at 15 birds each (the legal limit), with three shooters, that’s 45 birds.  Taco admitted that he might have shot a few more than his own limit to cover his buddies’ limits (they not being the “marksman” Don Taco is and thus needing a little assistance).   So, I’ll assume Don Taco shot 30 birds.  150 shots is a hell of a lot of shots for 30 birds.  Knowing my friend Don Taco pretty well, I’m assuming he’s a better shot than that and judging from the picture he sent, it doesn’t look like they were much over the limit, if at all.   I know Don Taco, the esteemed new county attorney, would not violate Texas law by shooting more birds than allowed.  So, I think Don Taco’s account of yesterday is a symptom of his recent move to west Texas.

Now, I’m clearly giving Don Taco a well deserved hard time here, but in all honesty, I know he can’t help it.  I don’t know what happens in West Texas that causes folks to speak only in gross exaggerations, but there has to be some explanation. My wife and her family are from Big Spring, a dying town out in the general direction of Midland.  She moved close to Ft. Worth in the 5th grade, but she still got a good 11 years of pure west Texas living in her.  She has two younger sisters who had less time out there.  What is interesting is that working from her parents downward, you can guess exactly who lived out west the longest, just by listening to their stories.  I have to give some credit to her mom here, because she seems to have mostly avoided this disease, perhaps as a result of trying to balance out her dad’s acute affliction during their years of marriage. 

See, if Jess’ dad is going to tell you about seeing a car accident it will inevitably be the most violent collision ever to occur on Earth.  Both cars were traveling at approximately 130 miles an hour during a hurricane-like downpour when they collided head on, causing an explosion of nuclear proportions, sending cars and humans tumbling willynilly in every direction, when in actuality Ms. Smith was sitting in her Buick at the intersection of Farm Road 134 and Sunset Drive when she thought the red light had turned green and bumped into Mr. Johnson’s pickup truck from behind.

Jess’ account of the same accident would no doubt have some embellishments, but less than her dad, and her sisters even less, all relative to the amount of time they’ve each spent out west.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think this fault of theirs is anything terrible.  In fact, it’s really kind of entertaining and amusing.  You just have to know where the story is coming from and if it involves a 110 degree day, it was probably really 95; if there was a bull that got loose on the road and took 15 cowboys to round up, it was really a small steer and 1 cowboy, the mailman and a 12 year old kid walking home from school that got it back in.  Living in west Texas kind of sucks, so I reckon you’ve got to do your damnedest to make it sound as exciting as possible.  Or maybe it’s just something in the water.

Encore!

Thursday night, we took Marley to her first big concert - Depeche Mode at Red Rocks.  She’s been a fan since she was 2 or so when she saw one of their concerts in Milan on TV.  We just sort of skipped the whole Barney/Jonas Brothers scene and got right down to business.  It’s never to early to learn about sex, drugs and electropop, right?

As a side note, if you’ve never seen or been to Red Rocks, it has to be one of the 2-3 best venues in all of North America.  It’s set in between two red sandstone walls, with boulders all around and overlooks the lights of Denver.  It seats about 9,000, so it’s good size but not like a stadium arena.  It’s worth a trip for a good show even if you have to drive a ways to make it.  I’ve never been to a concert venue where the drive in and the walk from the car feel more like you are in a national park than headed to a big show. 

Marley fought through the lateness (they went on at 10:00) amazingly well.  She was up and awake for two-thrids of the show before she laid down.  But even then, she wanted back up whenever a song came on that she really liked.  I look forward to reminding her when she throws a teenage fit in junior high and declares us uncool that she missed her first Friday of kindergarten because she was up til 1:30 at a Depeche Mode concert the night before.  Ha!  I’m sure by that point such comment will be summarily dismissed, but at least I’ll have some armor against the “uncool” attack.

Anyway, the show was fantastic.  Dave Gahan and Martin Gore are both close to 50 now, so they’re no longer young, but they are young enough to still play with the same energy and there were only 1-2 times where you could notice a little age in the high end of Gahan’s baritone.  The show still has the same feel as when I watched Depeche Mode 101 back in high school.  Gore still looking, um, theatrical in eye makeup and a full-sequined silver suit. Gahan still sporting the dark leather pants and vest.  Cool graphics on the giant video screen.  Lots of waving hands and jumping around. 

But here’s my only minor grumble, and it’s one far from unique to Depeche Mode.  Whoever started this concept of the encore should be hanged.  What if you every good book your read came to an apparent end before the climax of the story had happened, only for you to thumb through 10 blank pages before the story started up again?  Or how about you go to a movie and right before the guy gets the girl back, the screen goes dark for 5 minutes and the audience has to cheer wildly before the operator will crank the projector back up? 

It was pretty clear when Dave Gahan said good night and walked off stage before they had played Personal Jesus (amongst others) that the concert was not in fact over.  But, being good fans and knowing the routine, everybody whistles, claps, chants and cheers until 5 minutes later, when out comes the band for 3 more songs before leaving again for a few minutes.  Followed by more cheering and a second encore of 2 more songs. 

Maybe it’s how bands get their ego fix.  “Hey, they really like us and they want more.”  I assure you the crowd wants more whether you walk off stage or not.  Maybe there’s some thought that it creates a second wind of energy.  This could be true, but I’m pretty sure the crowd is going to go nuts when they play a song like Personal Jesus, encore or no. 

So I’m doing this at the next concert I go to.  I’m gathering all the folks standing around me and I’m going to get them to spread the word around.  After the tenth song, we all begin filing out of the venue.  The whole crowd waits out in the parking lot for five minutes until the band announces that they will play their best song with a new sense of energy upon our return.  While out there, we’re all free to slam a couple of shots, smoke a joint, get a quickie from a groupie or whatever crosses our mind.  Then we’ll all return to our seats, ready to roll for the remainder of the show.  If they can make us beg while enjoying some extracurricular activity, then damnit, we can do the same.  Who’s with me?

Wanted: Geriatric Canine

So, we made it through our epic weekend of music and traveling, with a side order of moving into a new house for good measure.  In summary -

Thursday night til 1:30 a.m. – Depeche Mode concert at Red Rocks (details later)

Friday – wake up early-ish morning, drive from the hotel to Longmont (45 minutes), drop off one load of stuff and the dogs off at the house and do the final walk through, close on the house, drive back to the hotel (45 minutes) to get the rest of our stuff, drive back to the house (45 minutes), check on the dogs in the backyard, buy a battery for the used car to be bought, drive to Aspen (3+ hours), drop Marley off with friends, go to Steel Pulse concert til 1:30 a.m.

Saturday – wake up early-ish, go have breakfast with other friends, buy used car from them, install new battery, drive back to Longmont ( normally 3+ hours, but…), stopping for the world’s slowest and worst waitress at a little restaurant in Minturn (forgot..yes forgot..our drinks and our food.  Not sure there’s much else to remember whilst waiting on tables. Lunch took 2 hours.), arrive in Longmont 5 hours after departure from Aspen, look for lost dog (the theme of this post below), retrieve lost dog, drive to Boulder (30 minutes) to get U-Haul before closing, haggle with U-Haul folks about lost reservation, get truck, drive back to Longmont (30 minutes), spend 2 hours loading half of storage unit, drive to house (only 2 miles, yea), spend 2 hours unloading truck, order pizza, crash.

Sunday – wake up at a reasonable time, drive to storage unit, spend 2 hours loading remaining stuff, drive back to house, spend 2 hours unloading truck, drive to Boulder (30 minutes) to return truck, go have 4 o’clock  lunch in Lyons, drive home, crash. 

Next 7-10 days, unpack and stir well. 

 

So, we’re all a bit tired today, but I haven’t written in a few days and this couldn’t wait.

As mentioned above, we left our dogs in the backyard of our new house on Friday night while we went to Aspen.  We of course made sure they had food and plenty of water, but were still a little worried about how they would handle being left in a strange backyard, alone, for their very first night at the house.  But, the fence is good, and everything seemed to be in order.  So, we left to Aspen for a nice, short visit, a concert and to get our used car.

Upon our return to the house, we went first to the backyard to check on “the boys”.  Well, our “younger” dog, Doce (11 years old), came running up in his usual energetic, cheerful manner, but we didn’t see Pancho.  Those of you who know me or have read this before know that Pancho is really old, especially for a big dog.  He’s 16 years old now and is a 70 pound dog.  So, when we didn’t seem him, it wasn’t too surprising at first.  He’s pretty much deaf, and we figured he was in some groundcover, under the deck or around the corner sleeping.  We proceded to search the whole backyard, even growing concerned that he could’ve fallen down one of the window openings for the basement.  But he was nowhere.

Finally, I walked around to the front of the fence on the other side of the house from the gate we had been using and discovered another gate.  An unlatched and easily opened one at that. 

So, now we were missing our 16 year old dog who doesn’t have a clue where on the planet he is currently located.  We had no idea how long he had been out and about.  And we couldn’t begin to guess where he might have walked or where he might have laid down when he got tired, which is pretty quickly these days. 

We were getting pretty worried, as we’ve had this dog for 15 years of his life and almost all of Jess and my life together.  A little sorrow was creeping in, coupled with some reconciliation to the fact that we found Pancho as a lost dog and maybe that’s just how he was supposed to go out, too. 

We next did the most logical thing, which was to call the animal shelter.  Long story short, they had our dog, who had allegedly wandered a good 2-3 miles away, totally out of character for him, even more so with his age and hip dysplasia.  I was actually a little impressed by his gumption.  It reminded us of stories you hear about old people with dementia who wander off to who-knows-where and are usually found a little thristy, hungry and disoriented. 

Now for the funny.  When we went to the humane society (very new and nice, by the way), the lady that helped us told us that they have to carefully screen callers, because apparently people will decide what kind of dog they want and they will call and claim lost dogs before the actual owners can claim them.   Now, I’m sure this is a problem with some popular and/or expensive breeds like labs, rottweilers, etc.  The lady told us that as soon as she heard our accurate, deatiled description, she trusted that Pancho was really ours.  But we were left to wonder, who exactly was she concerned would call in with a fake claim on our dog. “Yes, thank you, I’m missing a 16 year old border collie/blue heeler mix with hip dysplasia, severe hearing loss and breath that smells like an overrunning outhouse.  He has little to no bladder control and sometimes craps uncontrollably as well.  We know he’ll probably only live another 3-4 months, if we’re lucky, but he’s ours honest.   Wink wink.” 

Just not sure there’s a big dognapping industry for ol’ Pancho.  Maybe back in his prime, but that’s long past.  And maybe for us, that was a good thing for his little adventure.  Despite all his various signs of age, we couldn’t have been happier to have him back.