What's So Lucky About Them?

We had a pot luck Tuesday at work. I brought in some chicken chili, the only thing I ever take to any event involving prepared food. Why? Because I have a crock pot and the recipe involves 5 or 6 cans or jars of various things, some shredded cheese which I hand-shredded, and a teaspoon of something called "cumin". I looked up "cumin" on the internet and it is defined as "something you put in chicken chili". The hardest thing about this creation was remembering to dump it all together in time for it to crockulate overnight, which I did (remembered) at 11:30 the night prior, approximately 14 seconds before I nodded off to sleep. There's nothing quite like being comfortably settled into bed, finally getting warm, fading gently into blackness, then realizing you have to get up and go downstairs and crank open 3 cans of great northern beans. And it's a good thing there's nothing quite like that, because that thing would suck.

Our pot luck at work was so successful we put all the leftovers in the break room fridge, and reheated them today for another one! Which made me wonder... Why do people prepare so much food for pot lucks? If 20 people are slotted to bring something - and everyone who attends has to bring something - and if all 20 people make/buy enough food for like 5-10 people, then you have either a) food for 100-200 people; or b) 5-10 servings of food for 20 people. No wonder we did it all over again.

My favorite memories of pot lucks come from church when I was young. Several times a year a pot luck would be announced to celebrate some event or another; a church milestone, a sending-off of a missionary or pastor, maybe a softball league championship? The thing is, I can't really remember why most were held, I just remember the thrill of walking into the multi-purpose room, greeted by the sights and smells of so many various pots of meats and potatoes and gravies and indecipherable casseroles.

A good pot luck always had these items (from these people):
- 2 pepperoni pizzas from local chain (forgot about pot luck until en route to church)
- Bucket of KFC (didn't necessarily forget, but a dad was in charge)
- Green bean casserole with soggy fried onions on top (mother who thinks having greens is important)
- Someone's homemade fried chicken which lasted way longer than the KFC bucket (thinks they're a good cook and resents fast-food addicts)
- Cocktail wieners! (single mom who loves America)
- 2-pound bucket of store bought potato salad (didn't necessarily forget, but definitely can't cook)
- Au gratin potatoes which are so hot they burn your tongue and then you can't even taste the KFC (my mom)

And I haven't even gotten to the dessert table!

Pot lucks at church had several other attractions to me, like danger and sports. The multi-purpose room was carpeted but had basketball hoops (a rug burn lover's paradise), and there was always a group of us trying to get some shots in before the tables were all set. One of the more assertive mothers would always insist we "put those away before they knock something over", but we'd push it until something was knocked over, or until the larger, even more assertive father would just go ahead and grab the basketballs and say "Come on you guys!" in that midwesterny way.

Look, nothing says community like a dozen crock pots and a bowl of punch, so let's beat this topic up a bit! What else is a favorite or must-have item at a pot luck? Comment below or at Facebook.

3 Questions You Should Just Let Me Ponder

If you use your child’s name as part of an online or network password, do you actually run the risk of forgetting your child’s name?

Like you’re sitting there one day, dying to check the spam building up in your “second” email account – which you use for retailer and airline spam and questionably tasteful picture-of-the-day subscriptions – and as you begin typing the password (starting with a month/day code of a child’s birth of course), you realize you don’t know which child’s name you used, or if you used the entire name (Samantha) or the abbreviated/nick-name (Mantha), and then as you rack your brain trying to work all this out, you realize…OH NO… the name escapes you entirely! To add insult to injury, you’ve just forgotten your password, too. Which, as we know, is inevitable. Later, you run into your child – also inevitable since you live with them – and all your flustered brain can manage to send through your mouth is “Oh hey there, uh, password to my Hotmail account. How was your day?”

If you lose your mobile phone, and nobody is around to call you, did it ever exist?

I was faced with this conundrum recently whilst on a sports-watching holiday in friendly Florence, Alabama. Florence is quite easy to find on a map: look at the dangling protuberance at the southwest corner of Alabama – call them Alabamacles? – and then go straight north all the way to the Tennessee border. It’s within 300 miles of there. OK, maybe not the most direct way to point it out, but I did get you to see Alabama in a whole new way. (Thanks, Matt, for the inspiration.) Anyhoo, I lost my Samsung Omnia touch screen web-browsing text machine, which places something called “telephone calls” from time to time, somewhere around the place in which we parked for the game many hours earlier. Inexplicably, we made it all the way back to the hotel in Decatur (again, Alabamacles, then straight north but a little further east) before I realized the device was no longer in my coat pocket, nor in a pants pocket, nor in the trunk, nor in my hand. And there was no chance of finding it now that it was dark and we were 50 miles away. Strangely, a sudden calm descended on me as I realized I no longer needed to compulsively check for new texts. I had no desire whatsoever to check my Fantasy Football scores the following day on my mobile browser. I spent less time in the bathroom since I didn’t have to start a new game of Jamdat Bowling. I even used a PAYPHONE. You remember those; they’re the silvery boxes where you put in quarters and get a friendly, female voice to let you know you have 5 minutes to place a call and you’d better get yakkin’ cuz you just used up 2. This oasis of personal freedom lasted a good 2 days, until my mobile’s insurance carrier zipped me a replacement, no questions asked. Now it’s back to—hold on, I have to go. Texts coming in.

If IKEA furniture were harder to put together, would we ever put up with its chipped edges and dodgy fasteners?

We have no less than 17 pieces in our home (including each dining room chair) which Annie or I assembled using the illustrated, non-gender monster guided instructions. Assembled well even, although it’s probably hard to do a poor job of assembling pre-drilled boards with wooden pegs and lock screws. It’s essentially Tinker Toys for grownups, let’s be honest. I shouldn’t really complain; our furniture looks great in our home and has afforded us some modernity and matching color schemes which we might not have otherwise achieved. In college, for example, my shared rented house had a set of donated couch, chair, and ottoman that matched (in lovely green plaid) and then 24 other miscellaneous TV stands, folding chairs, long mirrors, coffee tables, handy plastic crates, and upside down wastebaskets covered with a towel (end tables). Clearly I have experienced a major furniture upgrade in my life and for that, IKEA, I thank you. And for the Marabou chocolates and Daim candies, too. And Swedish meatballs.

99 Photos of Fall

According to Blogger, this is my 99th post. To celebrate, here are 99 photos of me, family, and friends from the past 3 months. They're captioned to tell you some stories.

Enjoy!

What's This?

This thing just looks foreign to me. The whole interface of it all. The title - what the heck is a Stizl? Stupid name regardless of what it izl.

In a hotel in Chicago. Stuffed from a nice Italian dinner at Piccolo Sogno, thanks to our agency friend. A little bored, but happy with the day's progress (took beautiful photographs of giant cookies - really). Wasn't bored over the weekend. Flew out here late Friday night and had some fun with bro-and-sis-in-laws. Drank a few too many beers, ate a ton of food in restaurants (which continues), and probably gained a pound or twelve.

This hotel has a fitness center, but I don't feel motivated to use it. I'm ready to get tomorrow done, hit a little Miracle Mile shopping for my wife, and go home Wednesday to see the family and get ready for some Thanksgiving fun. Only the best of holidays would roll an invitation to overeat and watch tons of football all into one.

I learned something Friday night. People still don't understand the letter/number system for Southwest Airlines' boarding process. I'm amazed at the impatience and inability of people to do these two simple things: LISTEN and LOOK. That's all it takes. (The above is maybe the most creatively written blog post, by me on this blog, and it was nearly 2 years ago after waking up in the middle of the night with this revelation that we use letter/number combos ALL THE TIME with no trouble, yet getting on a plane with it is nearly impossible. It still makes me laugh.)

I take too many things for granted in life, but not this: my ability to listen and absorb knowledge, information, and even the random bit of useless trivia now and again.

By the way, I highly recommend the book A Painted House by John Grisham. Hadn't read his work before, and this must be a great departure from his courtroom/lawyer dramas as it's written from the perspective of a 7-year-old boy in the cotton fields. It's about family, sacrifice, life lessons, and hope for something better. I also finished 'Tis by Frank McCourt and Born Standing Up by Steve Martin and am halfway through Slam by Nick Hornby, just on my flight out here. (Slam, not the others. That would be some type of record).

That's all I feel like writing about for now. Glad to have typed a few strokes again.

Why is GEICO awesome?

Time for the debut of my alter ego:

The Marketing Genius('s Assistant)!

Frank, my editor, added in those punctuations, so neveryoumind them. Except the exclamation point, of course. That's all me! The first rule of marketing is: Emphasize the awesome by adding exclamation point(s) as necessary!!!

The second rule of marketing is: If you disagree with the first rule, just leave this stuff to us, the geniuses (and their noteworthy assistants).

Today, let's ponder GEICO, America's 3rd largest auto insurer who could save you 15% on car insurance if you just give them 15 minutes; a process so easy that modern day cavemen could even do it.

Why is GEICO awesome? It's clearly not because they put a (!) at the end of their brand name or slogans, which they don't, but they do have an ALL CAPS brand name, which is almost as good. (However, I did hear that Sam Mendes is working on a musical based off of the company's history, set in rural London, tentatively titled "GEICO!") No, it's truly awesome because I did absolutely NO research to tell you that information. I know those things because of effective use of the tried and true element of the advertising biz, the "TV ad".

Am I saying they're awesome simply because they have gimmicky characters, like a cheeky talking gecko, or the aforementioned cavemen, or googly-eyed stacks of money (my personal fave)? Nope, that's not enough in the bottom-line world of marketing, no sirree.

As this one great economist once said, "It's the message, stupid". It's not the gimmick itself, or the way the message is presented. It's the content of the message. The ink on the paper, not the pretty letterhead. The trailing banner behind, not the single engine aircraft. The concept of "d-e-f-e-n-s-e", not the cheerleaders barking it. And other interesting analogies, too.

Look back at all the silliness, the purposely low-budget appearance of the ads, the cavemen spin-off opportunities, and remember that all they're trying to get you to remember (point approaching) are the following words: "save", "money", "car insurance", and "fancy a crisp?"

Now, what about the results? Does the brand's obvious effect on this marketing genius guy put the googly-eyed money stack where his mouth is? (maybe rethink that sentence. -Frank) Answer: No. I don't really think about my insurance very often. I used my parents' insur...er? insurrector? back in the day, and then when I switched states I took my wife's insur...ance provider. I'm big into family plans, I guess.

So I don't pay any money to GEICO, but I love GEICO's message enough to write about it. Which leads us to the 3rd rule of marketing: If you can't sell your product to someone, maybe you should think about giving that person your service for free, in return for them writing an awesome column unmonetized blog post about you.

The End of Summer Out Here in Utah

In a previous post, I mentioned how much fun it is to have to talk about weather all the time at work. Well, it reached a new low pressure system the other day, when a Sales Guy called from some provider of some valuable service which is guaranteed to provide valuable value, boost ROI, improve logistical flow-through, and make my Mother proud. These Sales Guys really need to tone down their rhetoric by the way. Anyhoo, after identifying himself as Sales Guy from Illinois, he signs off the voice mail with, "Hope the weather out there in Utah is treating you well. Take care."

Those were his exact last words before hanging up; I was so impressed with them I backed up the message and wrote them down as I listened a second and third time. This Sales Guy, endlessly pressured for new accounts, wants money I don't have in the budget for his magical wonderservice, and he leaves me with a comforting wish that atmospheric phenomena are treating me, personally, with kindness. This is what he must want me to remember then, right? You start and end your sales pitch with things that last, everyone knows that. What better than a weather well wishing? But not just a generic "Hope you have a sunshiney day", no! Give it to them in a more personal way so they will relate to you!

One of the things I'm thankful for in my career is I haven't had to cold call, ever. I was technically a salesperson right out of college, but I was never selling a brand new thing to a brand new account. Actually, I never really sold an old thing to an old account, either (ha ha!). What I'm saying is, I'm lucky the previous marketing administration quit, because I'm not very good at sales.

I had a fun adventure last night. I went shopping with Zoey for a birthday gift for her friend from school. Zoey is 8. When I suggested we get the girl, who invited her over not only for the 6pm party but directly from school today so she doesn't have to go to daycare (awesome!), a birthday gift for her troubles, Zoey rattled off the list of things Emma is dying for: "makeup, like lip gloss and those little kid makeup sets, and she loves loves loves perfume, and she also wants new necklaces like the peace sign ones I have...". Huh, alright. I didn't even know who Emma was until yesterday, but you apparently know everything about her. Anyway, we went to the superstore for last minute gifts, Walmart, and I spent a good 10 minutes in a makeup aisle fending off adult-shade lip and cheek applications and encouraging she get "up to 3 or 4" of the $0.89 tubes of pink glittery stuff. We settled on some fake nails, and I let her get a set, too. Emma is going to be thrilled with the little flowers on the tips, ohmygosh!

We also got the kid a Hoops & Yoyo birthday card--have you seen these things? My family has begun making them a tradition, and they are often hilarious. These little recorded voices come out of the card giggling hysterically and subtly insulting the recipient. You have to listen to them 3 or 4 times to get everything, but it's worth it. The one I got on my birthday will be opened no less than 100 times over the next week, and by then I will want to strangle Hoops with his Yoyo. But they're funny.

Last weekend was my big sports/birthday trip, and it did not disappoint. Below are a couple photos. Everyone who matters knows about Michigan's big win by now, and looks forward to their HUGE crosstown rivalry game with the mighty, uh, Emus? of Eastern Michigan University. EMU is located in the hipster village of Ypsilanti, a town so famous due to its name, that when you ask locals where they're from they simply reply "Ann Arbor". Except my friend Charlie, he's really proud of "Ypsi"; perhaps because they use really clever puns in their advertising. You "auto" see it!

Happy end of summer. :( <-- Sad face.

My 31st Year: What Have I Done?

I stole that title from a previous post I wrote, and I like it because you can read it one of two ways (just in case you can't hear the inflection in my text):

"Hmm. What HAVE I done, anyway? Let's reflect..."; or,

"OH MY GOSH WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

I'm reflecting, frantically, because next Saturday is my birthday. The big 3-1. No longer just 30 which, let's be honest, simply meant "not in my 20s anymore"--a surprisingly harsh reality that was difficult to accept, and even difficulter to get up from after crouching for any more than four or five seconds. When did a physical act as simple as "the crouch" become something you must truly question whether to attempt or not? Do I have a nearby wall with which to brace myself? Will my trick knee decide to flare up, causing me to groan inappropriately loud as I rise? Do I have enough give in the seat of my pants? Years back, the crouch was an afterthought; a simple and necessary tool for several sporting positions, also known as a "stance". My favorite was the "three point stance" in basketball. This clever device allows one the leverage to either pass, dribble, or shoot the basketball. Ha ha! You'll never know silly defender! Only they knew with me. If I was in the three point stance, one of my two signature moves was imminent: the "sit back down on the bench", or the "ankle sprain". At least then I had the will and joint lubrication to spring right back up.

Also, I don't really have a "trick knee". I just like the sound of it. Maybe if I spent 20 years workin' on the railroad I could get away with that sort of embellishment. So, sorry about that, railroadmen. I didn't mean to demean your 2nd favorite ailment behind "spike-through-hand".

I'm celebrating my 31st birthday by doing what any responsibly maturing man would: flying across the country to watch sports. And I'm dragging my wife! We'll be popping into Detroit for a Tigers game on Friday with Brad and Andrea, staying there that night, then meeting my parents in Ann Arbor for Michigan and Notre Dame. A birthday treat worthy of former president Gerald Ford and The Pope! It's been almost 3 years since I visited the Big House, and despite all the program's efforts to become a horrible football team the past two years, I'm stoked to go back, and maybe more stoked to have my wife go with me. She'll finally understand just a smidgen more of my personality and my tendency for withdrawal on fall Saturdays. I don't know that she'll understand why the Michigan Wolverines are "Champions of the West", nor why we sing the words so heartily, but then again, nobody really does. We just do it because it's college football.

This time of year always feels new because school sessions are starting. But even as a workin' man, it makes me feel I should work a little harder and "think about my future". So, in a clear sign of advancement, I'm thinking about taking a class. At a college. I considered enrolling in High School Government class just to relive the fun, but they didn't like my voting record. Instead, I'm going to take a class called "Toolbox Basics". No no, it's not a lecture on how to become a tool. I'd be in a much more advanced class than "Basics" for such a topic. It's a class to help me learn how to write. I'm not sure what I want to write yet, but at the least I'm moving closer to my goal of wearing jeans or corduroy pants and a sweater every day, not shaving, developing neurotic quirks, and having everyone accept those things for the sake of art. Wish me luck! And...I have to say it...GO BLUE!

Bloggers block, and my dream work scenario

This is a blog. How can I go weeks or months without feeling like I have "anything to blog about"? I am alive, I have a family, I have a job, I have more and more nose hairs which protrude beyond the nasal opening, and must be trimmed! So really, no shortage of material.

I spend 9 hours of most weekdays at an office building. I sleep about 8-9 hours a night, thanks to my wife's awesome sleeping habits (seriously, life changing). So that leaves 6-7 hours to do other things like work out, play with the kids, taunt the cat, watch sporting events on TV, trim nose hair, etc... But that 9 hours at work may be the problem. Work takes up more than half my waking hours, yet I do not like blogging about it. There are too many things about having a corporate job that an outsider wouldn't understand, and that I don't want to risk talking about in a public forum. A public consisting of about 11 people spread around the country, but a forum nonetheless. Or maybe I'm only inspired to blog about it while I'm at work, which then creates a scenario where my creative ambitions could usurp my jobly duties; which, in turn, could cause termination of the job. 

To steal a gimmick from Dave Barry, "Jobly Duties" could make a great band name.

In all the meetings, conference calls, and seminars I've had the pleasure of leading or attending (no sarcasm there at all), I've been waiting for one moment--one particular opportunity--to let my true abilities shine. The transaction would happen during one of those meet and greet sessions, where everyone toots their own horn by saying how long they've "been in the biz", and it would go something like this:

Me:  "Hi, I'm Steve, the Assistant Brand Manager for the brand. I've been here..." blah blah blah "...after which, I developed a true passion for..." blah blah blah "...this one time, in band camp..." blah blah blah "...really happy to be here. And how about this weather, huh? Huh?"

Before I continue my dream sequence, let's consider why every single person in the history of any business conversation, new friend introduction, or family reunion simply MUST talk about the weather. Why do we do this? One's location in relation to the other makes no difference at all. You could have resided on the same street for 20 years, never vacationed, and stepped out of your house only to say to your neighbor, "Man, can you believe this very typical sunshine?", and they would reply, "I know, RIGHT?" This happens 40 times a day in the average office building, with people in one state acting like the weather in any other state is, like, totally wild.

Anyway, back to my sequence. I've just humbly introduced myself.

Interested Party: "Steve, as the Associate Brand Manager, how do you..."

Me: "Ahem, ummm...OH, you know, I was just going to say I'm just the 'Assistant' Brand Manager, not what you said, which was 'Associate'."

Interested Party: "Riiiight. Anyway, in your role, how can you impact the average sales of..."

--Here's where I interrupt again and turn a normal, droll business meeting into a real LOL moment--

Me: "I mean, and either way--associate or assistant--my title starts with 'A-S-S', so... Right?"

Everyone in the room: 

Well, there you have it. An insight into my professional success, and personal joy. Work is work, and I'd rather write about make-up stories that prove my immaturity than about actual workish work things. Or the weather, apparently. Except when it's SUPER hot for like 5 straight days, which it has been lately here in Utah. Seriously, it was like 103 the other day, in late August. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?

Vacation pics and tidbits

Annie, the kids and I flew to Chicago on 7/31, drove to Hudsonville on 8/2, drove to Big Rapids (Cottage) on 8/5, drove back to Chicago on 8/8, and flew home to SLC (minus kids) on 8/9, our 1-year anniversary. All that time on seats of moving vehicles left me thinking, "Why do men wear wallets in their back pockets, anyway? My left arse cheek kills!"

Happy Anniversary baby! I did exactly what I wanted to do this year: set the bar low. I only get better from here, trust me.

Some of my favorite highlights from the trip:

- Zoey left the other 3 of us in stitches at the SLC airport restaurant. She started doing this weird "duh, du-huh" sound to Preston, and for whatever reason we all started giggling as she just kept doing it, without breaking. It was like one of those uncomfortably long Family Guy jokes. She just kept making that noise.

- The waiter looked like a creepy, ashy-faced version of Michael McDonald from MAD TV.

- I'm not going to compare every anecdote to a TV show, sorry about that.

- Nicknaming the Willis Tower the "What you talkin' 'bout-Willis Tower", and then hearing the kids try to say it fast. TV reference again, dang.

- Preston methodically cleaned out the appetizer plates at Giordano's.

- Zoey played a game at a street fair where you had to throw a ping pong ball into these tiny glass jars, to win a goldfish in a bag. You got 5 tries. These games are designed to be nearly impossible, right? She nailed it on the first try. We won a fish. It lived for 3 days. We tried.

- My Dad unwittingly ego-slapped me while we put together a new trampoline at his house. I just couldn't pull the last few sections of springs far enough to hook them. My hands were blistered, nearly bloody by then (slight exaggeration). He just kept pulling them 'til it was done.

- I saw my cousin Emily for the first time in well over a year, maybe two years? She went and married a man named Steve. Good job, cousin!

- I met my niece Elizabeth finally. She was crying within 30 seconds when I picked her up. We made up and became buddies later in the week.

- Zoey walking through Meijer in one flip flop, having lost the other one at AJ's house.

- Preston deciding to do lots of unpredictable things: Choosing an afternoon with Grandpa John and Grandma Terry instead of taking the train to Heidi's neighborhood with me and Annie and Dave and Heidi for the street fest; Going grocery shopping with Grandma Carol instead of hitting the G.R. Children's Museum with my Dad and Annie; Waking up super early on his own, at my parents' house, to play Gotham Racing on the X-Box. Well, that last one isn't so unexpected.

- Josh Pepper singing - screaming - "Beat It" in falsetto at the top of his lungs on Guitar Hero World Tour at AJ's house.

- Preston and Zoey arguing over the controls of the slowest, least entertaining type of water vehicle: the paddleboat. "I want to push the little handle forward and back!" "No, you suck at turning left while pedaling!"

- Seeing 3-yr old Danny by the campfire with his pants down. He was standing there with a marshmallow roasting stick in his hand, and suddenly his pants were at his ankles. It seemed like no great surprise to his parents.

- On my 2nd ski run of Thursday, catching an edge and going shoulder/face first into the water at full cutting speed. I hadn't fallen in a long time, and it's a trip. In half a second these thoughts occurred: "I am killing this run OH NO GOING DOWN. I think my shoulder just punched my clavicle. Am I upside down? I wonder if this looks cool to the kids. My teeth hurt?"

- Something about vacation makes my wife actually okay with a real, full arms and body hug. With an extended embrace. I know that's really sappy but I'm treasuring it. It was our anniversary after all. And I hadn't showered in like 3 days at the cottage and she was still in for it. That's love, baby.

I'm omitting a few things, surely, but I'm also very tired and this is taking forever. Plus I took the time to put those clever, HI-larious captions on all the photos above, so don't skimp on those. Thanks to Terry and John for letting me drive the Kia Sportage with the "One Hot Grandma!" license plate frame -- very awesome -- and for letting us crash at our favorite downtown Chicago condo. And thanks to Mom & Dad for hosting us at your home and the cottage for a week. It was a lot of running around, but something about the Midwest always makes it feel easy to enjoy. 

Crickets...where has Stizl gone?

I haven't written anything lately because I spend too much time thinking about writing. Ask me about that next time I see you; I'll have to explain.

I'll say this: John Irving either has some deep-seeded father issues, or he simply has the mind to create the gripping fictional tales his Garp longs for. I read The World According to Garp in about 2 weeks, which is, for me, flying through a novel. I can't wait to get more of his stuff.

My wife made a good point tonight over garlic burgers and beer. (Yes, a romantic Wed. evening every woman dreams of.) I was blabbering about how I hadn't blogged in a while because I couldn't recently find the time to write my observations or op-ed column-styled posts about life happenings. She pointed out that this particular blog may be an outlet for me in that respect, but that the small group of readers - family, friends - who would take the time to read it simply want to know what's going on in my life. Throw on some pics and let them know we all went to the water park, in other words.

So I'll probably start doing more of that. But not until after my vacation next week. We're all flying to Chicago on Friday, then driving to Michigan on Sunday for a week to catch up with friends and hang out with the family at the cottage. I'll get a chance to finally meet my niece, Elizabeth, do my kind of skiing (less snow, more motor) for the first time this year, let the kids 'drive' the Sea-Doos, catch some delicious bass, and maybe even share a reflective, love-drenched moment with my wife over garlic burgers steak and beer.

Track Day photos

Have Skills, Will Drive

If you haven't heard by now - and that's a possibility since I tend to speak softly - I had a rare and thrilling Monday. That's right, a thrilling Monday. Probably the most surprising part of it all. I didn't wake with the "ugh, weekend over" feeling despite the fact I was coming off a Vegas weekend of all things! No, I woke with the thought, "what is appropriate apparel for driving a race car?" Answer: Depends. Depends on what? No, just Depends. Get it? No? Oops-I-Crapped-My-Pants? Ring a bell with anyone? From the scary fast driving? You'll get it later on.

A couple design guys I work with gave me the opportunity to drive their cars, really fast, on an incredible road course here in Utah called Miller Motorsports Park. Our caravan from Salt Lake to the track included a Shelby Mustang GT, which I drove, a Lotus Elise, and a Shelby Cobra. (Not actual images of the owners' cars, just for reference.) I don't know all the car guy details of these vehicles, so don't ask. I know that they are all fast, and they make a terrific rumbly sound when the engines are revved. The Mustang had what's called a "Hurst shifter" with a "short throw". I looked it up on the Internet. It means that when you put the shifter thingy into gear and then go to another gear you don't have to throw anything very far, unless you are trying to get your opponent off the track with a green turtle shell, like in Mario Kart. "Here we gooooo!"

Once we arrived, we parked our cars amongst a variety of other souped-up rigs, like Porsches, Corvettes, an actual pointy-nosed race car, some BMWs, a Mini Cooper or two, and I'm pretty sure there was a Mazda Miata thrown in for good measure. Don't hate, it did very well on the track. The Lotuses and Cobras were the best looking cars in my opinion, very track-ready vehicles. I received an orange paper bracelet that said, "You are in the slow group, so don't try and go all Tony Stewart out there. Maybe more like Tony Randall." It didn't say all those things on the bracelet, but orange indicated my status as a novice. I could tell the organizers there weren't used to true rookies, as more than one asked me to clarify my claim of having zero experience.

"I'm Steve. This is my first time doing this."

"So what high performance vehicles have you driven?"

"Uh...my old Taurus SHO that had a stick shift? I grew up on a lot of country roads, so..."

"So how many laps have you driven before?"

"This is my first time here. It's my first time doing this."

"And which other tracks have you driven on?"

"You shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition. It would be, 'On which other tracks have you drived fastly?' and the answer would be NONE, this is my first..."

This happened at sign in, in casual discussion with other drivers, and mostly with the instructor with whom I was paired. (I forced that one a little.) Ron, who I outweighed by a good 150 lbs, seemed REALLY alarmed that I had nary a lap of track driving in my career as an amateur race car driver. I mention his size because I found driving to be a very physical activity, but his slight stature was clearly a non-factor when he threw that Mustang into the first corner off the straightaway. I gripped the door handle, the center console, the dashboard - anything I could grab to keep me from flying out the side of the car. There is NO WAY I'm going to be able to drive this car like that. How does it not spin out or flip entirely?

As Ron is whipping through the first several corners, he is trying to explain the strategy to me. A real-time tutorial on how to make your passenger barf in 10 turns or less.

"Now in this corner, it starts sharp but it levels off here, so let the car stay out wide a little longer and then get into your turn HERE and aim for the apex..."

After the word "HERE" I'm totally tuned out as I try and get my bearings after another sharp left. High speed corners have a way of reminding you what's important in life: balance, control, just living. Fortunately, I am wearing a helmet and, as prescribed, narrow shoes with a rounded heel. Surely that's all the protection I'll need in a fiery crash! We get to turn twenty-something, and we're finally on the long straightaway. I can breathe for a moment. Ron decides we better do another lap with him driving, since I hadn't spoken or even nodded my giant helmet the entire circuit. After a second lap on the 4+ mile course, we pit, and do a quick Chinese fire drill where I end up as the driver! BONUS. I shove the Hurst shifter into first gear, and promptly forget everything Ron told me. The first lesson in the driver's meeting was "coming out of the pits, do NOT cross the double white lines. Cars are doing about 140 down the straightaway here." While I did remember to check my mirrors and felt comfortable accelerating, I did maybe inch over the line just a hair. Fortunately, the coast was clear and I was into turn one before I knew it.

I mentioned the word "apex" before. I heard this word roughly 1,000 times during my laps. It's the point at the inside of corners where your vehicle should ideally reach the edge before gradually straightening out of the corner. "Use the whole track!" was another repeated phrase. Anyway, proper cornering for maximum lap speeds involves speeding frantically toward a cone on the outside of the track pre-turn, braking like you're told not to in driver's ed (stand on it!), then turning sharply to make a bee-line to the apex cone. All the while gripping the wheel like it's pulling you behind a boat and bracing your body with your knees against the door and center console, respectively. At least, that was my style. A more comfortable position, as the "pros" mentioned, was moving your seat so close to the wheel that you look like your Grandma Edna, except you can see over the steering wheel. This lets you drive with your elbows and wrists, not with your shoulders and entire torso, as I was. Again, I don't think racing is designed for people with legs longer than a newt's so that wasn't going to work for me.

These minor details are endless and I cannot possibly do them justice. So let me get to the point which is HOW AWESOME WAS DRIVING A RACE CAR ON A RACE TRACK?! In my 14 or 15 laps over 3 sessions, I got better and better at the throttle-brake-turn-apex scenario and started really having fun and really testing the car. The hardest part is learning to trust the vehicle through these corners. Especially considering it was not my vehicle! A man I've known less than a year was trusting me with this machine, and that may have been the subconscious restrictor plate that kept me on the track. (WHOA! Race-speak in metaphor, kids!) If you've never been subjected to G-forces like this in a car, as I hadn't (despite my Mom's best efforts on the way to church years back), you just can't imagine that you'll come out of the turn with the nose pointing forward. But it did, over and over, and I hit straightaways at 120+, and I bested S-curves at 80+, and I only maybe lost a layer or two of rubber in the process (sorry, Zach). Ron was super pumped with my very last lap, where I reached deep within my 40 minutes of racing experience to finally nail the double-apex turn in the middle of the track, and certainly pull off my best lap time. My shirt was entirely sweat through, my arms and knees ached, and my ears burned from being shoved into that helmet, but I had the biggest grin on my face the whole way down pit row the final time.

An epic experience, and I recommend it to anyone who truly enjoys driving. My folks always bought cars with a little "extra" under the hood - even if it was a giant, gold Oldsmobile, which I proudly drove for several years as a hand-me-down - and I've always been the "I'll drive" volunteer when it comes to friends or family or road trips. I also had the benefit of learning how to drive on manual shifters from permit days on, which took out a potentially challenging part of this event. So this was a true thrill, and I'm very grateful to Zach and Allen for the opportunity. I have some photos and video footage from them, and I'll try to get it online somehow for those who think I'm a big fat liar.

Did I mention they let me drive the Lotus home from the track? That is, after I folded my legs up into my body so I could get in. Rolling at 90 down I-80 in a yellow convertible import didn't suck.

And if anyone needs an amateur race car driver with an impressive resume driving one car on one track with a professional instructor, then I'm your man. Shake and bake, baby!

Why Reading is Good

[NERD ALERT! This is about reading.]

It's not because your parents tell you it's good. They're right, but the reason they say it at the time is because they simply want you to quit asking for snacks.

"No, you can't have a brownie sundae with crushed candy canes on top. What even made you think of that? You should go read a book or something. It's good for you."

Seriously, if my kids haven't asked for a snack during a particular 15 minute time period, I start to worry. And if I haven't responded in complete disbelief that these children ask child-like questions with impunity, they start to think I'm not an old grumpy bugger after all. But I normally do. This paragraph is like a triple negative. I’m not even sure what it says now that I haven’t continued writing it.

 

To reading, then. I started writing a thoughtful, what-does-it-all-mean essay on the effect reading has on our psyches, but it disappeared. Twice. I saved it as a draft here in this Blogger control center, and it completely vanished. So I re-wrote it, naively in Blogger again, and it vanished again. It was Blogger's way of saying, "Dude, that was way over your own head. Stop now before you subject your readers to this painful, meandering interpretation of the long-stirring thoughts in your usually sealed off brain."

 

So instead, I'll try and summarize in a few sentences. The more I read, the more information I absorb. Duh. More specifically, the more I read books set in historical, real-life contexts, the more I understand about myself and my own humanity. I haven’t even read these books with that purpose (I’m off to find myself! blah blah blah), but the result is just that. Confused? I’ll use a quick example with the book I’m reading now, Angela’s Ashes. Frank McCourt, the author, is a kid growing up first in Brooklyn, then back in native Ireland in the 1930s and '40s. He’s Irish-Catholic of course, lives in squalid conditions I’ve never had to endure, sees the depression in America and something altogether more bleak in Ireland; basically, we have nothing in common. Except he is a boy, and he is human. And when I find myself relating to the dreams, needs, questions, and “sinful thoughts” of little Francis in his boyhood, I just feel like my life is a little more normal. I also feel really grateful to have been born and raised in the late 20th century in America, in West Michigan, to my parents, in my little world.

 

See? That’s just one perspective out of one part of one book! I go through this like 3 or 4 times every time I read something now. Reading is good because the stories are experienced in your own head, using your own creativity, and stirring your own emotions. I love TV and movies, but they’re created with someone else’s imagination, and often produce false senses of emotion through musical crescendos or REALLY INTENSE CLOSE UPS.

 

Your teachers were right. Reading is good. They just weren’t explaining it right. It’s not because you’ll know the correct answers to a test, or because you’ll be able to recite Shakespearean lines when you’re picking up chicks, or because you truly need to understand transcendentalism. It’s because you’ll understand your place in this world a little bit better.

 

And you may pick up a few answers (questions?) on Jeopardy!, which is never a bad thing.

It's Thursday, yet it's the weekend

This week, my company "let" us work four 10-hr days, and take Friday off. It's the 2nd time they've done it, but I was on vacation the last time. So this week, I woke up at my normal time every morning, but instead of hitting snooze 18 times, I got up, stood in half-slumber in the kitchen while the coffee brewed, then either plugged in the laptop at home or headed to work for some early meetings. A few late evenings and working around the kids' after school activities, and I'm done on a Thursday night! All in all, probably worth it for an extra day off, but not something I'd love to do every week.

On Wednesday, I attended a lovely breakfast reception for the Utah chapter of Operation Smile, an organization with whom my company has recently partnered. Due to the early start (7:30 am), I did not brew my home coffee as usual but instead thought, "I'll just get the coffee there!"

[quiet inner voice] Well, the meeting is at the "Joseph Smith Memorial Building". Don't the Mormons reject coffee and most caffeinated products?
[louder inner voice] Yes, but this is not a church-related event. It's an opportunity for non-profits and corporations to come together and celebrate in perfect harmony! With coffee!

Needless to say, the event provided any breakfast lover's best choices (eggs benny, potatoes, fruit, pastries, juices) but NO java. My inner voices combined to drown out any and all speakers or musicians (Osmond, of course), repeating, "What? Really? Is that a carafe over there? How do I get coffee? Where am I going to get coffee? When is this over? Is there a coffee shop within 1 block of my location? Is that a headache I'm getting? Is this some cruel joke, orchestrated just for me to sit in disbelief and confusion? How do I get coffee?"

The potatoes helped shake me out of my funk, and I listened as my company's CEO told the cookie story and introduced our partnership. It really was a tremendous event. The local community is perfectly built for the Operation Smile charity: educated and well respected dentists and plastic surgeons, a strong volunteer base, and people comfortable with travelling globally (missionary influence). It's no wonder they are one of the strongest chapters of the global charity. The partnership has given our employees a shot in the arm, too, after a pretty morale-crushing past 12 months. We raised over $17,000 through employee fundraisers and vendor donations, and are building programs for our product lines to start contributing, too.

After a pretty packed week, I'm diggin' my day off tomorrow. Annie, being the really hard worker of the family, will be working and the kids are at Grandma's, so it's another day of freedom for me. I'm praying no major home emergencies arise between now and then, like the ceiling fan detaching and flying through the slider and killing a neighborhood cat. Actually, I wouldn't be totally devastated by that. If nothing else, it would give me something great to write about. The post would start something like:

"So yesterday, the ceiling fan detached and flew through the slider and killed a neighborhood cat! As expected, I wasn't totally devastated."

Marketers

http://www.savagechickens.com/2006/09/marketing.html

U/P Overload

U/P Overload is coming. It has nothing to do with the Upper Peninsula, Michiganders. It's a new phenomenon in which your brain reaches maximum capacity on one tiny part of its memory: Usernames and Passwords. And it's coming for society. Think it's not?

Allow me to remind you the myriad forms U/Ps take: account nicknames, frequent flier #s, credit/debit card #s, that 3-digit code thingy on the back of credit/debit cards, padlock combos, garage or car door codes, social security #, student ID, employee ID, copy machine account code (at my work, it's different for the color and b/w copiers - seriously), any one of your seven email addresses, and don't even get me started on the dreaded PIN! Incidentally, it's not PIN #, because PIN stands for Personal Identification Number. You wouldn't say, "Personal Identification Number Number", would you? Well, maybe if you were playing that drinking game, which I heard about from a friend, where you create a rule that everyone must say the last word of any sentence twice twice. You have PINs for voice mail access on your mobile and work phones, online account access, ATM cards, debit swipe machines, your fuel rewards card, telephone banking, your wife's ATM card ... er, you get the idea.

Website access is clearly the worst offender, though. At work alone I have usernames and passwords, which may or may not be the same, for the following sites: intranet, expense reports, payroll, benefits, half a dozen vendors (all with different 'rules' for password wackiness), logging on to the network, and, of course, logging back on to the network after I step away for five, no, three seconds. "It's for your security!", they say. I also have several files and folders protected by passwords. Again, that's just at work. How many personal online accounts do you access? If you're like me, at least a dozen. But if you're under the age of 22, it's ranging somewhere around 18 Jillion.

"But Steve," you might say if you were inclined to speak out loud to a web log, "don't you use the same username and password for a lot of those?" Well, yes. Sometimes. When they let you. But over here, it's your full email address and an eight character password. Simple enough. However, over there, it's just the username part of the email address followed by a 6-to-10 character password which includes at least one capital letter and no, and I mean NO swear-word symbols. $#%^@! And back on that site, you get to make up a cute account nickname (bobbin4apples), choose a visual queue (I'll take the rubber ducky), and use your keyboard to type the letters that correspond to the numbers on the on-screen keypad. Ahhhhh, the letter 2.

Well, how do we manage all this information without totally losing it, literally AND figuratively? We create cheat sheets, of course! Don't act like you don't have one. A sticky note here and there. A Word document, deftly hidden on our hard drive and not on the shared network - password protected, of course. Or maybe we just make SURE SURE SURE that we use word/number combinations that we just can't forget! Note to everyone: Stop using your oldest child's birth date in 8-digit format as your password. Because then we all know your password. 03131975 isn't fooling anyone!

Fortunately, technology will eventually catch up and provide us with new solutions. Take Apple, for instance. Their Mac computers have an application called "Keychain" which stores U/P combinations for websites and other stuff. Of course, it has an administrative password, for when you need to remember your actual passwords. And kudos for calling it "Keychain", because I can't think of any personal item people lose less than keys. Seriously, what word better completes the sentence, "Honey, I can't find my ____"? Maybe "cell phone", which is also where you keep that notepad entry with all your password reminders. See why U/P Overload is a serious threat?

Enjoy the confusion while you can, I guess. Soon, when we're systematically implanted with RFID tags broadcasting everything about us and our brains are integrated with the World Wide Head, which controls everything - sort of like The Force, but with a wireless network - we won't have the option to use the Spanish word for "orange" followed by "1" as our password any longer. And that, my friends, is a day in which I will click the Log Off button one final time.

Okay, that was a bit melodramatic.

Can't you imagine the conversations of that fully integrated web-human future?

[3 guys, gathered around the holographic copier]

"Hey, do you remember 'logging on to the network'? Man, what a crazy time that was."

"You aren't kidding. I used to log on to the network 5, 6 times a day. Never thought twice about it."

"Did you ever log on to the network, then log off, then try and log in as someone else, just to see what it was like?"

"Only EVERY DAY!"

"HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Yeah. Hey, I just realized we're inter-men, and we can't think or feel or experience anything on our own anymore."

"Oh @#$%^&"

This was cooler than it reads

Something very strange happened today. With kids at their Grandma's and wife working late, I packed up my gym bag this morning for a post-work workout, making sure I set 'record' on the Tigers/Pale Sox game since I would likely miss several innings. Work was work-like, and not strange at all. Lunch was entirely normal. My drive to the gym? Smooth sailing, and had an excellent discussion (on the bluetooth - safety first) with Murray, who, with his doctorly knowledge and triathlete's body awareness, dropped some advice on how to control my recent hamstring aggravation. 

Lately, gym visits seem difficult to come by, so I've adopted a policy of staying a minimum of 1.5 hours, oftentimes 2, to make it worthwhile. Let's say I haven't been much of a workout freak in my life. Playing sporting games and jogging now and again? Yes. But working out for fitness' sake? Not so much. Until I turned 30. The impetus being fear of physically breaking down and losing my incredibly manly psychological edge over children. What in Insecurities' name am I rambling about?

So 1.5 hours seems plenty for me at the gym, and I make it work by cross-training. And by cross-training, I mean casually shooting basket hoops for a good hour, then doing 8 curls, then jogging for 10 minutes on some sort of futuristic moving floor apparatus, then hitting the hot tub and sauna for as much time as I can stand without shriveling up or becoming that creepy guy that is just ALWAYS in there.

Today, I started my workout like I often do, in the basketball courts. The gym I frequent is not your pick-up game type place. The court is used for local high school lacrosse practice more than basketball, but I relish the isolation at times. I still LOVE shooting. It's not because I think I'm going to become a rec-league All Star, it's because I love the rhythm and the sounds and the satisfaction of still being reasonably good at something athletic. And I don't just play H-O-R-S-E with myself, I do shooting drills. Really. I have to make 10 of 10 alternating right-then-left hand layups from under the basket (harder than you think, especially for those who played intramurals with me at GVSU and remember that 2 year period where I had layup mental block), then 8 of 10 free throws, then 6 of 10 3-pointers going back and forth from the corners of the arc to the top of the key. If I miss my goal in a given drill, I finish the 10, then start that drill over until I get them all. In between, it's just normal dribbling and shooting and imagining I actually get to take my warmups off this time- wait, that was high school. Super lame, right?

After totally sucking at free throws today, I finally hit my 80% mark, then decided it would be a good idea to test the hammies and see if a dunk was possible. Upon smashing the ball into the front of the rim, I realized another benefit of having, essentially, my own gym: lack of witnesses. This fact, however, would prove to be somewhat disappointing in a few minutes. That is, of course, because the strange event was about to happen.

Standing in the right corner, I watch the wall clock for the seconds to wind up to 0 again, knowing my 10 threes routine takes about 90 seconds. At 5:28 I loft my first shot: CLANK. Rebound, opposite corner, nail it. Retrieve ball, move back across but a bit further off the baseline, bury another. This continues until I hit my 6th trey, in 7 attempts. Nice, I'm at my goal with 3 shots to go. With minimal effort and my form locked in, I can 3 more in a row. 9 of 10 - as good as I've ever done! In my movements, I was cutting the lines a little shallow and never got to the very top of the key, straight away from the hoop. So I sauntered there and threw up another shot for good measure. Swish. 10 of 11. What the hell, I think, let's start over. Corner - boom. Opposite - boom. At 14 of 15 shots it hits me: I missed my first shot. That's 14 in a row. At this point I am starting to giggle a little bit as each shot falls. The meat heads doing lat pull downs outside the court door are probably thinking, "What's with Grinny McSkinny?" I continue my circuit and finish again at the left wing with #19 going down easy. At the top of the key I hoist again and it finally, belligerently, rattles out. 19 of 21 is sweet, but more freakishly, those 19 successfully scoring in order. 

83% of you (basically, everyone who didn't play IM hoops with me) are waiting for a point, a different tangent, a horrifying ankle sprain to spice things up. But that was it. I made 19 straight 3-pointers today, and have no witnesses to corroborate my story. I considered leaving the gym immediately and rushing to Energy Solutions Arena to apply for a job as Kyle Korver's understudy (clarification for non-Utahans: that dude can shoot and has dreamy good looks. What?), but decided instead to do strenuous actions with heavy things for a bit before calling it a workout.

I am a man, I'm 30, and I still think it's important to be good at some sort of sport. Even if 'good' means able to make shots I've practiced a jillion times, without defenders, in an empty gym. It's my world, and you're all just not witnesses.

The Plunge

I just signed up for Facebook. The underlying motive is one of social media relevance more than 'connecting with friends!!!'.

Essentially, I've been professionally peer pressured. But I won't be disappointed when that one-time high school/college/work friend or acquaintance says "hi" or more probably, "Wait, you have two children over age 7? How is that possible? And you live in friggin' Salt Lake City?"

Pics from San Diego

Click on the slide to see larger photos.

What up

So TheStepDude.com is on hold. I have nary the time for this little blog/journal/column as it is, much less one with much deeper contrivances. I'm giving myself 10- no, 12 sentences to summarize the past month.

1. Our family vacation to greater San Diego with my parents was filled with memorable moments like swimming, sailing, Sea World, a wife's 30-ish birthday, boardwalking, pizza, bad college hoops, an uncle and aunt, 2 cousins, one traumatic kid injury, 3 nights of hacking coughs keeping me awake, fantastic downtown Del Mar restaurants, adjoining rooms with said parents (which we survived...and had fun!), Coronado Island, and a recommended Double Tree in Del Mar.

2. Zoey has recently transformed into a mega-diva thanks to an upcoming dance recital, the recital's costume, the recital's makeup, glitter and hair requirements, the rehearsals, the theme park locale of recital #1, and her natural self confidence.

3. A new fun thing we do is put this hair net, required by Zoey's dance troupe for the uncomfortably tight bun-style hairdo, on Disco Kitty's head while singing, "sloppy joe, slop-sloppy joe".

4. A certain someone who pursues athletic endeavors to combat aging has played two (co-ed lower-tier rec league) softball games, producing several hits and catches and throws and very few trick hamstring developments.

5. A certain Preston in my house has played three soccer games, resulting in many shouts to "run!" and "kick it" and "no really, run!" whilst congratulating him on his new coordinating accessories gear, which includes fancy shin guards and new cleats, which he'll grow out of by Thursday.

6. A certain wife of mine deftly stayed out of my way while I attempted to install the new, "easy self installation" bathroom flooring we purchased from the Home (Cash) Depot-sitory in order to avoid me taking out all my defeatist frustration on her.

7. The floor looks amateurish and less than perfectly square, but constitutes a huge improvement over the state of the floor immediately prior featuring remnant paper backing from the ripped out linoleum.

8. Was that "Home (Cash) Depot-sitory" line a reach?

9. I purchased the MLB subscription from Comcast for $199, justifying, "$25 per sports bar visit to catch out of market game times anything over 8 visits over a 162 game season equals 'it pays for itself!'"

10. If the Tigers don't have a successful season to redeem my dreadful home-team sports year, then I will be forced to pretend I love hockey.

11. Every time I saw the words "Double Tree" at the hotel, I immediately though of

12. I want to full-fist punch that bathroom right in the throat.