memories – Page 21 – Life In A Word

Of Rings and Romans

Eggs are a favorite food of mine. A breakfast plate is hardly complete without a couple of the fried, scrambled, or omelette-d variety. They’re delicious for lunch in an egg salad sandwich, or for dinner in a chef’s salad or a quiche. Don’t forget deviled eggs for a tempting appetizer. Nothing’s unusual about these egg-zamples, but here’s where it gets borderline obsessive. Earlier this week I imagined two sunny-side-up eggs placed flat-side to flat-side (don’t ask me why; I just did). What do you get when you do that? SATURN!

Perhaps you missed it on Tuesday, but the planet Saturn made a pageant-worthy appearance in our night sky. Saturn “came to opposition” (sounds political), meaning Earth made its annual passage directly between the ringed world and the sun; at precisely 11am Colorado Time. Saturn was closest to Earth at that very moment. Ten hours hence, when Colorado’s sky was dark enough for stars and such, Saturn was already well above the horizon to the southeast. At least I think it was Saturn. Without a telescope, I channeled my most amateur inner-astronomer using handheld binoculars. All I got was a shaky image of a bright, white pinprick in an otherwise fabric of black. But I must say, it was a pretty big pinprick.

Saturn is certainly the most distinctive of the eight planets in our solar system (take that Pluto, you dwarf-pretender you). Stage a planet beauty pageant and Saturn would simply flaunt her colorful rings to win ten out of ten times. The distant runner-up, Mercury, would get a few sympathy votes for her steadfast “cool under fire”. Mars would get no votes for her perpetual look of embarrassment. Earth would be disqualified for serving as pageant host. It’s Saturn with the sash every time.

There’s more to this heavenly body than meets the naked eye (WHOA; that may be the most risqué sentence I’ve ever written). Saturn is a big ball of gas – hydrogen, helium – and less dense than water, which means if you threw her in the pool, she’d bob around like a big ol’ beach ball. She completes a full rotation in ten hours; so fast in fact, her equator bulges enough to make her look like a flattened ball (not very becoming of you, Saturn). Her glorious rings are circular masses of ice crystals, over sixty feet thick. Her surface temperature is -300 degrees Fahrenheit, a reward for sitting sixth place from the sun.

All of which paints a not-so-rosy picture (but at least there are rings around the not-so-rosy – ha!). If you could travel to Saturn (no spacecraft headed that way anytime soon), could stand on her surface (you can’t), and could withstand her “balmy” temps (one helluva spacesuit there), you’d still fly off into space on account of that zippy rotational speed and global shortage of gravity. You’d probably splat into her pristine rings like a useless little bug. Ick.

Saturn gets her name from the Roman god – not goddess – of agriculture and time. Which begs the question, why am I calling him a her? (Crud, I have to start this blog all over again.) Even better, Saturn was also the god of wealth (now we’re talking). In ancient Rome, the Temple of Saturn housed the town treasury. And this same Roman god is why we call the first day of the weekend Satur(n)day (you’re welcome for that). So, let’s review. One of eight planets is named after you. One of seven days is also named after you. You must be one important dude.

And yet, Saturn (the planet or the god – you pick) doesn’t get much love in Earthly culture. I scoured the web for references (okay; no I didn’t – I just looked up “Saturn” on Wikipedia), and all I came up with was a) a Sega video-game console, b) a discontinued brand of automobiles, c) a rocket booster (just the booster, not the rocket itself), and the annual trophies presented by the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror Films. Oh yeah, and a small, unincorporated community in Whitley County, Indiana. Oh yeah again, and one of the primary characters in the “The Three Investigators” children’s books. Er, wait, that was Jupiter Jones. Dang it!

Even if Earthly culture dresses down her sexy rings (again with the risqué), I still say Saturn wins the pageant (only now it’s a male pageant and that doesn’t work for me). If you’re not convinced “he’d” win, consider this last fact. Saturn has sixty-two moons. Sixty-two! Maybe Earth’s moon should head on out and join the party. Can you imagine the night sky if you lived on Saturn? The fabric would be loaded with pinpricks (including Titan, the second-largest moon in the entire solar system). Moons, rings, Roman Gods, weekend days; what’s not to like? As I said, it’s Saturn with the sash every time. Now stop playing with your breakfast and get back to work.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”, and the Universe Today article, “Ten Interesting Facts about Saturn”.

The Fourth on the Fence

America’s Independence Day celebrations go full-on patriotic today, including a plethora of centuries-old traditions. Barbecues and fireworks. Downtown parades with marching bands. Baseball, apple pie, and ice cream. Flags, and countless costumes of red, white, and blue. Another round of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest. These are the images consistent with America’s 243rd birthday party. But tennis shoes and tanks? Nope; not what I had in mind.

I’m referring to recent headlines, of course. Nike – in an obvious nod to Independence Day – produced a limited-edition running shoe with the “Betsy Ross” on the heels (the version of the American Flag with a circle of thirteen stars on the field of blue). The shoe would’ve made it to hundreds of feet were it not for concerns voiced by activist (and Nike spokesperson) Colin Kaepernick. In response, Nike immediately recalled the shoe. In response to that, the state of Arizona withdrew financial incentives for the construction of Nike’s latest manufacturing plant. In response to that, the state of New Mexico created a political fence at the NM/AZ border, inviting Nike to “come on over”. “Betsy Ross” instantly became a hot topic on Twitter.

As for the tanks, President Trump requested “reinforcements” for the “Salute to America” parade and flyover in Washington D.C. In a nod to the U.S. Armed Forces, parade-goers will enjoy a convoy of loud-and-proud servicemen and women and their vehicles. I can’t think of anything more patriotic: a fortified Independence Day parade in our nation’s capital hosted by the leader of the free world. But like the Betsy Ross shoes, we have controversy. D.C. locals are worried about tank-track damage to city streets and bridges. More predictably, the progressive left sees President Trump’s actions (and Salute speech) as an inappropriate opportunity for political gain. In response to that, there will be protestors and flag-burners galore.

My Independence Day childhood memories have nothing to do with flag-burning, let alone tennis shoes and tanks. Our family would trek to the beach in Southern California full of pride and patriotism. We’d spread blankets on the sand at dusk alongside thousands of others, with a couple of buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner. My brothers and I would run around in circles with sparklers. When it got dark enough we’d enjoy the fireworks erupting from a nearby pier.

As a teenage boy – and budding pyrotechnic – Independence Day was all about the fireworks. My dad would purchase a large “Red Devil” assortment and we’d set them off on the beach. My favorites included “black snakes”, “ground-spinners”, and “fountains”. (Alas, I never experienced the machine-gunner thrill of hoisting a Roman Candle.)

When my own children were young, I delighted in our local (and thoroughly hokey) Independence Day parade. Our supermarket participated with a group of dancing, shopping-cart-wielding cashiers. Our dentist shamelessly advertised on a float with a giant toothbrush. But our son carried the flag as a Boy Scout and our daughter rode her pony as part of an equestrian team. Later in the evening we’d gather at the shore of the nearby lake to watch the fireworks display, fully funded by donations to the local fire department. Small-town America at its best.

Like any other living, breathing American, I have my opinions on the tennis shoes and tanks. I don’t think Nike intended to dredge up Revolutionary War-era civil liberties simply by displaying the Betsy Ross on its products. I don’t think President Trump did anything more than exercise the privilege of the office by serving as host of our nation’s capital’s celebration. In both cases, I think digging for dirt below the surface only makes things dirtier. I’d wear the shoes or attend the Washington D.C. bash without an iota of self-consciousness. I’d simply be an American celebrating our Independence Day.

Nike defended its shoe recall by claiming it’s “proud of its American heritage”, but worried the Betsy Ross would “unintentionally offend and detract from the nation’s patriotic holiday”. President Trump’s advocates said he’s “… not afraid to buck convention and put his own twist on these types of events”. How about we get off the fence, take a step back, and remember what we’re celebrating? America’s birthday deserves more than focus on yesterday’s regrettable events or today’s relentless politics. Perhaps – just for a day – we could be the “United States” of America once again.

Deutschland-ish Improvements

My wife and I are slowly remodeling our house, a room at a time. First, we took a big plunge and overhauled the kitchen. Then we gutted the master bath. Now we’re thinking about a large deck with indoor/outdoor spaces. But that was before a recent trip to Germany, where we cruised a good stretch of the Rhine. Suddenly “remodeling” takes on a whole new meaning.

Our cruise down the Rhine started in Amsterdam. Bad idea. Amsterdam is loaded with the prettiest little canals and bridges outside of Venice. As we were floating up and down the “city streets” we thought, “let’s put a canal bridge on our property!” But a canal bridge requires a canal, else you get London Bridge in the middle of the Arizona desert. So first we’ll be building a canal.

Our next stop on the Rhine kept us in the Netherlands. We landed briefly in Kinderdjjk, not even a map dot if it wasn’t for some of the most beautiful windmills in the world. Kinderdijk’s windmills not only pump water; they’re houses. We must add a windmill to our remodel list! It would make a unique guest house, and instead of pumping water from our well we’ll just windmill it up to the house from the canal. You know, the canal we just installed so we could put in a canal bridge.

Once our river boat hit Germany, I knew our remodel was entering uncharted territory. In Cologne, we walked through one of the most spectacular cathedrals in the world (seven centuries to complete!) In every Rhine river town we passed there was another cathedral (more likely a church, but over there they all look like cathedrals). Am I saying I need a cathedral on my property? Of course not; the neighbors would consider that a little pompous. But a chapel would be nice. Something to accommodate a steeple and bell tower as elegant as the ones you find in Germany. Wouldn’t it be great – calling the family in at dinnertime? BONG-BONG-BONG!!!

Here’s the other problem with Germany. Castles. Big ones. Little ones. Intact ones and crumbling ones. Wherever you look in the Rhine region, you see postcard-perfect towns with castles at their highest points. I mean, who wouldn’t want a castle on their property, right? The problem is, here in the flatlands east of the Colorado Rockies, a castle would look, well, compromised. You’ve got to have your castle sitting higher than everything else (otherwise, how would you lord over your domain?). Not to mention, castles take centuries to build. I’d like to be alive when my remodel list is finished.

(Side note: my wife showed a disturbing interest in the castle torture chambers and all their nasty devices. Either this is lingering effects of watching “50 Shades of Grey” too many times, or I’m in deep trouble. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on her).

Castles just reminded me about one more thing in Amsterdam. They love their cobbled streets. Sometimes they’re perfectly uniform and flat; other times they’re ankle-busters if you’re not careful. Either way there’s no avoiding the cobbles. So now my driveway needs a remodel too. I watched an Amsterdam-ian working to replace the cobbles on one of the bridges (yes, they cobble those too). It looked like backbreaking work, one heavy stone at a time. But if I’m going to have all my other Rhine region elements, an asphalt driveway just won’t cut it.

In the southwest of Germany, just before the Rhine flows into Switzerland, you make a stop in Bavaria: land of dense fir trees, Black Forest cake, and cuckoo clocks. You’d swear you walked into a fairy tale, with Snow White (or Hansel & Gretel, or a hobbit) emerging from the nearest Tudor-style cottage with a smile and some gingerbread. Fortunately, nothing in Bavaria made it to the remodel list. I suppose we could plant a forest of firs, but that’s just tempting a large-scale fire and we’ve already had enough of those in Colorado.

Also just before Switzerland, the Rhine passes through several locks; those mechanical wonders raising vessels from the lower river on one side to the higher river on the other. There’s nothing like watching a lock do its thing while you’re in the lock. Just when I thought I was done with my remodel list, here come the locks. What a great way to secure my property! Raise the driveway higher than the street; then force my visitors to enter through a lock! On second thought, that’s too much work. I’ll add another castle element instead – a drawbridge over the canal I installed way back in the second paragraph.

If you think my remodel is brazen (i.e. “Dave, do the deck and call it good”), just you wait. My list is not quite complete. Our cruise ended in Switzerland. OMG. I repeat, OMG. How the heck am I going to remodel our property into Little Switzerland? There’s nothing I wouldn’t tap from this Alpine dreamland: the dairy farms (which means a whole herd of dairy cows), the cheese and chocolate, and some of the prettiest, cleanest lakes in the world. I’d even recruit a few of the Swiss themselves (as if they’d rather live in Colorado). Of course, the real problem with recreating Switzerland is those dang gorgeous Alps – snowy caps, grassy meadows, cog railways and all. Building Alps on my property would require ten billion delivery trucks of dirt and I just can’t afford that. I’ll settle for gazing at the distant Colorado Rockies instead.

Come to think of it, gazing at the Colorado Rockies requires a deck. That I can manage. Let’s put my Deutschland delusion to the side and just start with a deck, shall we?

Flight of the Humble Bee

Travelling to faraway places – weeks at a time – sprouts a dual bloom of stress and excitement. The stress buds from the interruption of life at home; the need to keep things clicking and intact while away. The excitement buds from the unknown of what lies ahead; the anticipation of new sights and experiences. My keyboard tap-tap-tappings come from one of those faraway places today; Northern Europe, but it’s not my destination I’m keen to talk about. Instead I’m drifting a few days back to the start of the trip, to my outbound flight from Denver to New York. There, in a moment of rarefied air, I mingled for a few hours as a first-class passenger.

First Class. You know – the initial several rows on the airplane, dripping with white tablecloths, champagne flutes, and fluffy pillows. The wider, more comfortable seats. The dedicated flight attendant. Complimentary drinks, WiFi, movies, and magazines. Sounds so clean and expensive, with an almost regal attitude about it, don’t you think?

But what if I said, nein? What if I told you my first-class experience rated – yes – better than coach, but only with the slightest of differences? Wouldn’t you want to know why?

For starters, let’s deplane and go back to the terminal. A first-class ticket entitles you to a dedicated always-short line at the check-in counter. You already know that. Me, I missed that line. Whether the signage was on its morning break, or the harshly voiced commandant-of-the-queue distracted me with her “line up he-ah!”, or “print your boarding pass he-ah!”, or “do not leave your luggage he-ah!” (add German accent), I missed first-class check-in. Me and the “coachies” dawdled together in the snaky commoner line for a good forty-five minutes instead.

Fast-forward to the wait at the gate. My wife shrewdly pointed out the “Delta Club”, which I assumed was an exclusive members-only hideaway. Turns out, a business-class international ticket (i.e. the only reason I got first-class on the domestic leg) gets you and I access to the Club. Through a set of dark, imposing doors, past a couple of guards (who really do “guard”), we were treated to a light-but-no-cost breakfast buffet, comfortable chairs and tables, and blissful quiet (except for the gent next to me with the persistent cough). I hereby admit, the Delta Club was a sweet perk of first-class, if only to hang with less rats in the airport maze.

When a flight is even slightly delayed, and the passengers have nowhere to escape to outside of the boarding lounge, the ensuing chaos is a predictable study in human nature. No matter what kind of ticket you hold, “pre-boards” walk the plank first (defined as anyone needing extra time to get to their seat). After, Delta welcomes a mix of military, first-class (me!), and “Sky Priority” frequent flyers. But here’s the thing about rats. The line to board the plane is hopelessly windy and long, snaking between the walls of the concourse and the rows of boarding lounge seats. Try pushing to the front of the line – first-class ticket frantically waved above your head – when you’ve been standing in the back. Not-so-nice stares from other rats.

After taking my seat in 2a (or spoken with attitude, the second row), the complimentary glass of orange juice or champagne (or both please – mimosa!)… never materialized. Then I realized why. The logistics of serving drinks in first-class is virtually impossible when all the coachies board down the same aisle. No, this was not one of those planes where you “turn left” for first-class and “turn right” for everything else. One door. One aisle. All rats in the same maze after all.

<Cue disconsolate, sad music – solo violin or muted cello. First-class is dying on the vine.>

How about breakfast? First-class meals are pre-ordered – on-line. That’s cool. Choose from blended steel-cut oats/quinoa with fruit, or an egg/cheese souffle with chicken sausage. My wife chose one and I chose the other – borderline-healthy airplane food requiring forks and knives! Not only that (insert smirk), turbulence prevented the flight attendants from serving anything in the main cabin, not even so much as a glass of water. Hope y’all bought some pre-packaged self-serve snacks before you boarded. Ha!

But there it is. Attitude. Just when I think I can comfortably digest my first-class privilege; attitude rears its ugly head. Suddenly the passengers in row five and beyond are – ahem – somehow lesser. Not right. Time to pull my head out of – ahem – the clouds, and drift back down to reality. First-class may start out a little sweet, but the aftertaste can be a little bitter. Better to take my rightful place with the coachies from now on.

Crushed Rock

Checked the tires lately? No, no, no – not the air pressure – the treads. Take a good look the next time you grab the car keys. Besides pebbles in the grooves or nicks in the rubber, your tires might sport a bright swipe of yellow on the sidewall. That, my friends, is the calling card of the local police, tracking your parking habits. You could say you’re a “marked man”. But sadly – at least for me – the time has come for that chalk to go back to just being rock.

The Sixth Circuit U.S. Court of Appeals sits in Cincinnati, with a jurisdiction of Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee. Recently, a disgruntled Michiganite, possessor of fifteen parking tickets in three years (all issued by the same enforcement officer – creepy), decided she’d had enough and filed suit. Just this week, the Sixth decided yes, in fact; chalking tires is unconstitutional. By definition, chalking is somehow “a search of personal property”. By ruling of the Sixth, that search is considered unreasonable under the Fourth Amendment. Whoa. All because of a little chalk?

I’m trying to decide if “trivial” or “ludicrous” is the better word for this little story (see news article and twelve-page ruling here). Clearly, I don’t understand the fuss. Is chalking an invasion of our personal space? Are we channeling our inner little kid and crying, “don’t touch my stuff”? Have we arrived at the Land of Ridiculousness, where issuing a parking citation requires a search warrant?

In my Mayberry world, chalking tires is kind of charming. It’s a mark of a small town. Perhaps the council didn’t like the look of parking meters. Perhaps they couldn’t afford them. Whatever the reason, they released parking enforcement by foot (or bicycle), to cruise up and down the blocks “swiping tires”. Two hours later, those marks sometimes become parking citations.

College campuses are common ground for chalking tires, so the mixed opinions of students on this week’s ruling came as a surprise. Some worry new technology (camera shots? microchips?) will be more intrusive. Others are simply glad parking enforcement will be hands-off. Still others will miss the opportunity of “clever” ways to beat the system (a. Spray tires with a non-stick coating. b. Cover tires completely with chalk. c. Take tires with you after you park.)

I feel bad for chalk factories. Parking enforcement was a significant, high-profile use of their product, and now that’s been taken away. A substance of little more than calcium carbonate just lost some major press. The rest of chalk’s uses – by comparison – are downright banal.

When was the last time you encountered chalk? Probably been awhile. Unless you’re a teacher at the blackboard, a tailor marking clothes, a gymnast, rock-climber, weightlifter, or cuing up a game of pool, it’s safe to say you haven’t used chalk lately. Unless you’ve sailed in front of the White Cliffs of Dover, you probably haven’t even seen chalk lately.

How about chalk memories? My earliest comes from the playground of my elementary school. Before the days of painted lines, girls would chalk out hopscotch squares on the asphalt, doing their skips as they collected items from the squares (we boys were too cool for hopscotch). My favorite chalk memory comes from college, when my engineering professor laid out equations on the blackboard, then turned to talk to the class. As he spoke, he’d subconsciously hold the chalk aside his nose. By the end of the lecture his face was fairly covered in chalk dust.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I took a trip to Charleston, SC, and to nearby Folly Beach. The (now defunct) Morris Island lighthouse stands several hundred yards off the coast. A mile-long asphalt trail takes you from the parking lot to the beach, as close as you can get to the lighthouse. That trail is the photo below. Hundreds of pictures and sayings; bold, colorful sidewalk art. You literally walk the chalk.

The next time I get a parking ticket (and there will be a next time), I’ll be tempted to check my tires. No longer. Instead, I’ll just chalk it up to days-gone-by, when marking tires was simply a good intention, not a violation of the U.S. Constitution.

What a world.

Sham Sandwich

Back in my high-school burger-flipping days at McDonald’s, I worked countless shifts at the “quarter-pounder” grill, which involved a whole lot of beef. McDonald’s standard hamburger was a little brown disc – barely a tenth of a pound – and you could grill fifty at once like a big array of domino dots. The quarter-pounder, on the other hand, was a real burger. Those big boys required higher temperatures and more real estate; hence their own grill. Even the ever-popular Big Mac – a double-decker of the smaller ones – couldn’t tip the scales like the quarter-pounder patty. But no matter the weight, at least we were cooking up beef (and hooking an occasional Filet-O-Fish). On today’s fast-food menus, beef is getting a little scarcer; nudged aside by… well, the “impossible”.

“Veggie” burgers have been around in one form or another for the past forty years – mostly a quiet nondescript option at the bottom of the menu. Lately however, they’re starting to crowd the stage alongside beef. Maybe they’re just the same ol’ veggie burger, and today’s consumer is more tolerant because he/she is more health-conscious. But that can’t be true, can it, or I wouldn’t bother covering this topic today. Hey, when the New York Times makes a headline out of Burger King’s latest offering, it’s hard not to notice.

Impossible Foods (IF) is a small but rapidly-growing “burger” maker headquartered in Redwood City, CA. IF’s production takes place in a single factory across the bay in Oakland. After their latest contract, IF executives may be looking for more factory locations. They just signed a deal to add their product to the home of the Whopper. As you should figure by now, the IF burger is anything but meat. Not a “moo” to be heard anywhere in the building.

If we were only talking about Burger King – and only a handful of pilot stores in Missouri and Illinois at that – the “Impossible Whopper” wouldn’t be such a big deal. But here’s what makes me pause. “The Impossible” is also about to appear on every Red Robin restaurant menu in the U.S. (over 500 locations). White Castle already sells an Impossible Slider in all of its restaurants (380). And Carl’s Jr – albeit with a competitor of IF – offers a veggie burger in 1,000 of its restaurants. Every one of these chains prides itself on beef burgers. Yet if the Burger King pilot is a success, we’ll see the Impossible Whopper in over 7,200 locations. What the heck is going on?

A reasonable alternative, and demand from a health/environment-conscious consumer – that’s what’s going on. We finally have a tasty veggie-competitor to the all-beef patty. The Impossible (also a great country song by Joe Nichols, by the way), has the endorsement of not only fast-food chains and the media, but food critics as well. Apparently, one cannot distinguish said imposter from beef. You don’t need so much as a sprig of lettuce on this one, because you’re already getting plenty of “vegetable”.

I could list the ingredients, technology, and environmental benefits of the Impossible, but it’s more fun to watch the company’s informational video. See if you aren’t inspired after spending a couple of minutes with Impossible Foods:

IF puts a lot of science into “beef taste”, and the numbers don’t lie (see below). Less cholesterol and saturated fat. Far fewer calories. And, consuming one Impossible instead of one Whopper saves the equivalent of a ten-minute shower in water. It also saves eighteen combustion-engine miles of greenhouse gases. Look at you, eating fast food with an empathetic nod to Mother Earth.

To play devil’s advocate – despite the healthier ingredients and gentler impact on the environment – the success (or demise) of the Impossible will surely come down to taste. On that topic, I am not yet an expert. In fact, I am a skeptic. On one regrettable visit to Red Robin, I opted for their salmon burger over beef, thinking I was doing my body (and Earth) a favor. Mistake. Is it any wonder Red Robin no longer offers that sandwich?

I can’t use salmon burgers as an excuse not to try the Impossible. We have a couple of Red Robins in the neighborhood, and a local organic foods cafe already has one on the menu. No reason I can’t go down and give it a go. Also, “ground Impossible” will appear in grocery stores later this year (alongside the meats?), so I can even make my own patties. In other words, watch out McDonald’s. This veggie burger is no impossible dream.
Some content sourced from the New York Times article, “Behold the Beefless ‘Impossible Whopper’, and the Impossible Foods website.

Not-o Lotto Reasons to Play

Ponder the number “6” for a minute and see what spins around in your brain. A half-dozen eggs sitting neatly in their half-carton. The perfectly-square sides of a cube. Strings on a standard guitar. A team of volleyball players. The geese in “The Twelve Days of Christmas”? A Star of David, a purchase of beer, or the largest roll of a die? Forget ’em all; they pale in comparison to this week’s headlines. Here in America – happening more and more frequently – “6” causes a nationwide frenzy for a wholly different reason: ping-pong balls. Ping-pong balls?

Powerball, the American lottery game shared by 44 of the 50 states, has its jackpot blossoming into the stratosphere again this week. The five white + one red (Power)balls are spinning relentlessly into our hopes and dreams. Local news is positively frothy over the $750,000,000 jackpot, the third-largest since Powerball began in 1992. Never mind the ridiculous odds of winning (1 in 292,201,338). Never mind no one picked the winning numbers in twenty-six consecutive drawings since Christmas. Also never mind not one of the 183 winning Powerball jackpot tickets has ever been sold in Colorado. That’s 16 years + 1,664 drawings = 0 winners in the Centennial State. Even tiny Rhode Island fared better than that (1 winner). No matter; our broadcasters still push aside this week’s actual news to cry, “Get your tickets now, people – you could be the next Powerball winner!” Yeah, right.

Powerball jackpot history does not favor Colorado

Admittedly, my wife and I have played Powerball – but only a handful of times. It’s like we have an unwritten rule: no tickets unless the jackpot exceeds a half-billion dollars. But it’s not the news alerting us to all that potential windfall; it’s my mother-in-law. She follows the lottery like a hawk. Whenever we step into her house, she always knows exactly where the jackpot stands. Her tickets sit patiently on the kitchen counter, ready for that next biweekly drawing (as she unfailingly asks, “Have you bought yours?”) Just this week my mother-in-law realized her winnings can be multiplied several times over if she’s willing to pay more. That’s an important aspect of the game, Mom. Not that I consider the woman a Powerball guru. After all, she’s the one who holds up the convenience store line when she turns in her winning tickets… because she’s buying more tickets. You have to wonder if she ever sees cash in hand, or if this drill is just an endless cycle of ping-pong balls.

Colorado wasn’t always a part of Powerball. Our state came to the table late – in 2001 – almost a decade after the game began. Before joining, I remember the “legendary” stories of Coloradans who would drive all the way to Kansas or Nebraska (hours) just to purchase Powerball tickets. That mind-numbing trip to the east would cost you at least two tanks of gas, and the convenience stores at the borders would have hundreds of customers in line. That’s a lot of effort for odds of 1 in 192,000,000. A lot of gamble for a little game. Too fortuitous a foray for me.

Speaking of “game”, Powerball really isn’t one, is it? Yes, there’s a winner (and a whole lot of losers), but one can hardly claim to “play” Powerball. There’s no rolling of the dice, no dealing of the cards, and no moving of the game pieces. No strategy or rules. Instead, it’s just plunk down a few dollars for a quick-pick ticket; then go home and watch the ping-pong balls roll. “Fun”.

Admittedly (again), my wife and I play Powerball for those proverbial hopes and dreams. We always start our conversation with, “What would you do if you won?” That conversation alone is almost worth the cost of the ticket. What would I do with $750,000,000? Well, let’s break it down. The cash value of the jackpot (lump sum vs. 30 annual installments) is $477 million. Federal/state taxes drop that number to an even $300 million. Then I pay off the mortgage and any other debt. Set up a fund to gift my three kids the maximum tax-free amount allowed. Remodel the house and ranch. Travel the world. Give generously. Orbit the earth in a SpaceX rocket. The list does not go on and on. That’s about all I can come up with, folks.

Roughly calculated, my fulfilled hopes and dreams leave me with about $250 million yet to spend. This is exhausting. I’d rather play ping-pong with the numbered balls. Not that it matters – Powerball’s latest jackpot ticket was just purchased in Wisconsin. (Called it – Colorado is now 0-184.) That’s a lot of bread for a Cheesehead.

Let’s Do the Twist!

My Amazon order history says a lot about my purchasing habits. I am a buyer of needs vs. wants. Pet food. Printer ink. Humidifier filters. But every now and then, a little something nostalgic sneaks into My Shopping Cart. Favorite childhood books for my one-year-old granddaughter. A balloon-launching catapult to make a Thanksgiving turkey fly (it didn’t). Italian chocolates from Perugia, also discovered during a year abroad in college. And just today – on total impulse – a Rubik’s Cube.

Rubik’s Cube – adding a few wrinkles to us baby boomers – celebrates its forty-fifth birthday this year. Back in 1974 when it was invented (and originally dubbed “Magic Cube”), the 3x3x3 trinket earned our attention for its mechanical magic as well as its almost-impossible-to-memorize solution.

To be precise, there are 43,252,003,274,489,856,000 (that’s “quintillion”) possible positions of Rubik’s colorful squares. The Cube comes with neither instructions nor answers. Already solved in its packaging, you can’t help twisting it up into a mess of color. In our pre-Internet world, Rubik’s Cube required endless gyrations in search of the answer (instead of just, “Hey Alexa”). But there was something immensely satisfying about the resulting nine squares of single color on each of its six sides. There was also something tempting about peeling off the colored stickers and rearranging them instead.

Erno Rubik, a Hungarian inventor, was an architect and architecture professor “searching to find a good task for his students” when he completed the Cube’s first working prototype – a mess of wood blocks and rubber bands. A small plastics company took a chance on its manufacture and the rest is history. In the first four years alone, two hundred million Cubes were produced and sold.

I was in college (and also an architecture student) when Rubik’s Cube first hit the shelves. Its perfect symmetry and twisting ability to reinvent its colorful look went hand-in-hand with my interest in building design. I remember keeping a Cube on my dorm room desk – at first for mindless manipulation; later for successful solving. Not that I could solve it quickly, mind you. The world record – an average of five solves – is six seconds. The world record with one hand (???) is nine seconds. The world record using only your feet (again, ???) is twenty-two seconds. My solve is expressed in minutes, if not hours.

Few puzzles compete with Rubik’s Cube for sheer “can’t put it down”. But there are a few. One of my favorites was the wooden double maze, the box-like puzzle with the Etch-A-Sketch dials on the side, maneuvering the steel ball through the walled maze without dropping it through one of several holes. I devoted hours and hours to that puzzle, always sweating those final tricky turns to the finish. Another favorite: Marble Solitaire, where you hop-eliminated marbles in search of the perfect solution: a single marble standing proudly in the board’s center divot. Finally (courtesy of Cracker Barrel restaurants), how about “Triangle Peg Solitaire”, the hop-elimination puzzle with the colored golf tees? Thanks to that little game, my kids were supremely patient after the dinner order was placed.

With somewhere near four hundred million sold, Rubik’s Cube is considered the best-selling toy of all time. Its inventive design landed the Cube in the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in 1982. The Cube also garnered “Toy of the Year” in eight countries, including Germany, France, and the U.S.

Inevitably, there were attempts to advance Rubik’s design, such as a 4x4x4 version (“Rubik’s Revenge”), or pyramid, dodecahedron, and hexahedron shapes. But going completely off the rails, look no further than GoCube – a thoroughly high-tech update to Rubik’s. GoCube is also 3x3x3, but rimmed with LED lights, and contains wireless smart sensors, an embedded gyro, and an accelerometer. Download the GoCube app to your phone (of course there’s an app), and watch your twists on-screen instead of on the cube itself. The app guides you to the solution (if you so choose), creates alternative mosaic-looking puzzles, and run reports on solving speed and efficiency. You can even wage virtual head-to-head competitions. All for “only” $119.

“The Pursuit of Happyness” (courtesy of Warner Brothers)

I’m sure Erno Rubik (and Will Smith) would pooh-pooh GoCube as too much of a good thing. I would agree. The app-driven, light-up, hundred-dollar GoCube is over the top, with zero nostalgia to boot. On the other hand, Rubik’s Cube cost me $4.59 on Amazon. That’s a sweet deal, and a cheap way to learn how to do the twist all over again.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”, and the Wall Street Journal article, “Never Solved the Rubik’s Cube?…”

Beyond Repair

Most days, we leave our homes to spend time in other kinds of buildings. We park our cars in the front lot, approach the doors, pass over the threshold, and join the unique subculture within the structure before us. If we work in an office building, we navigate a maze of hallways and elevators before our final destination. If we traverse an airport, we draw on the stress and frenzy of countless others. If we worship in church, we assume the quiet reverence of the congregation. And if we enter a hospital for surgery, as I did last Thursday, we expect… we expect… well, we don’t know what to expect in a hospital, do we?

My recent hospital visit deserves a few words. After all, the only other time I donned the peek-a-boo gown was a-way back in my teens. This time around (and with medicine advanced another forty years), I was keenly interested in the start-to-finish experience. My surgery – a routine out-patient procedure – took less than an hour, during which I was entirely unconscious. You’ll be spared the details since I can’t remember a single one of them. Let’s just say I’m beyond (the) repair now and recovering nicely.

The hospital experience itself actually began at the doctor’s office, a week prior. In that “consult”, not only did I learn what I didn’t want to know about my procedure (i.e. worst-case scenarios), I also learned I’d be checking into the hospital at 6am. Cock-a-doodle-doo, that meant the alarm clock buzzed at 5am. Remarkably, I wasn’t my surgeon’s first procedure of the morning. Call me grateful – he warmed up on somebody else instead.

I almost forgot to mention the hospital’s “pre-surgery phone call”, which they calendar between the consult and the surgery. I thought this conversation was going to be a financial beat-down (as in, “You are able to pay what your insurance doesn’t, yes?”). Instead the nurse went through a list of do’s and don’t’s in the forty-eight hours leading up to my hospital visit. Mostly don’t’s. Don’t use anything in the shower besides antibacterial soap. Don’t take your vitamins. No more nightly ~~bottle~~ glass of wine. No food or water after 10pm the night before. She might as well have said, “Just come to the hospital now; you can wait in the lobby for the next three days”.

Colorado Springs’ stylish UCHealth Memorial Hospital North

Emergency rooms aside, hospitals are surprisingly low-key at 6am. My wife and I staggered down the dark sidewalk into the main lobby (after finally locating a parking space not labelled, “For Doctors Only”). The only movement in the vast space was a couple of bleary-eyed attendants at the registration desk and the barista getting the coffee stand warmed up. Thanks to the “pre” phone call, registration was a breeze. The guy didn’t even ask for ID (though who would “steal” an out-patient procedure?). He just confirmed why I was there, slapped on the plastic bracelet, and sent me down the elevator to the “surgery reception area” one floor below. For the record, I’d like all my future surgeries to be above ground. The basement is way too close to the morgue.

“Surgery reception” is where things get interesting. After they scan your bracelet (my every move now tracked) they escort you to the pre-op room where you receive the following: 1) A surprisingly comfortable and non-peek-a-boo hospital gown, 2) A stack of six antibacterial wipes each the size of a paper towel, 3) A laminated card with a diagram of the body, 4) A plastic bag for clothes/valuables, 5) A disposable shower cap, 6) A “blanket” (basically a large square of space-age tin foil), and – brace yourself – 7) Two oversized cotton swabs with a generous gob of red goo on each.

The wipes serve as a do-it-yourself bath without the water. The laminated card points each wipe to a different part of your body. The shower cap ensures you look your Sunday-best for surgery (photo below). Finally, the swabs are for your nostrils. Who knew – your best chance of infection comes from the nose? The red goo creates a barrier, and… right… too much information.

Thanks to a generous dose of the happy gas (a beautiful thing), the remainder of my start-to-finish hospital experience is hazy recollections. I remember a quick visit from the surgeon, and the tattoo he drew on my arm. (I never thought I’d be thankful for a tattoo. That check mark and initials remind Doc which side of me he’s cutting into!) Soon after I was wheeled into surgery and shifted onto the table beneath the white lights. As for the happy gas, it went into my IV (no mask), so I never saw it coming. One instant I’m lobbing a few questions at the anesthesiologist, and the next it’s, “nighty-night, Dave”. I may remember chatting up the nurse in the recovery room. I may remember fresh coffee and a scone (I love my wife). I definitely don’t remember getting dressed, heading down the corridor in a nurse-powered wheelchair, and dropping into the passenger seat of my car. Mission – er, surgery – accomplished.

If this were a Yelp review, I’d give my hospital visit five stars. I can’t come up with criticisms but then again, the happy gas conveniently dissolved a good chunk of the experience. Let me just say this instead. I now have a small, high-tech mesh installed, making me better, stronger, and faster the rest of my days. The hospital bill won’t be six million dollars, but my new body just might. In other words, Steve Austin reborn.

Clothes Shrink

On our 25th wedding anniversary, my wife and I crossed the Atlantic for an unforgettable first trip to Ireland. We wanted a few keepsakes to bring back with us, so we shopped carefully as we went about our travels. She found a gold necklace with a St. Brigid’s cross (her namesake), and a few ceramic Christmas ornaments. I opted for a few logo items from the Guinness Brewery, and a coffee table book on the village of Kildare. We also purchased music from a lovely harpist, playing outdoors just steps from the Cliffs of Moher. Last week, I came across one more Ireland item I forgotten about: the sweater you see below. It’s colorful and it’s Celtic… and I think I’ve worn it once.

Don’t know about you, but the new year is always my opportunity for “spring cleaning”. Maybe it’s because I’m already in the mode as I take down and box up the Christmas decorations. Or maybe it’s because my office files burst with paper after a year of accumulation. Whatever the reason, by mid-January I manage to a) empty my office of anything irrelevant to the coming year, and b) conduct something akin to an inventory reduction sale on my clothes. The office files are easy, but the wardrobe; that takes a little more judgment.

When it comes to decisions about clothes, it’s safe to say guys have it easier. We’re more utilitarian – by definition “designed to be useful or practical rather than attractive”. Yep, that’s us guys – if the shoe fits, so to speak. Of course, women flip the definition around and put the premium on “attractive”. For them it’s more about fetching than fitting. In fact, I’d venture to say a woman’s closet is 75% “attractive” and 25% “utilitarian”, while a man’s is the reverse. And trust me; “utilitarian” is easier to shift to the giveaway pile.

My annual wardrobe shrink is always nostalgic. Some items – particularly suits and sweaters – survive several years before reluctantly leaving the nest. Others – admitted impulse buys – fly the coop having been worn just a handful of times. I’ll never forget one year, when I brought eight suits to Goodwill. Why so many? I moved from California to Colorado and changed jobs in the process. My CA job required the suits; my new CO job did not. Even so, I had to swallow hard on that donation. Those suits had plenty of mileage left in them.

Here’s a mistake I make all too often with my wardrobe. I’ll buy a shirt or a pair of pants at a store. Weeks later, I realize I really like what I purchased, so I go online and buy another half-dozen; same style in various colors. That’s the mistake. Not only am I a poor color-chooser through the Web, but I don’t wear that shirt or those pants as often as I think I will. In other words, I over-shop (and I’m a guy!) Then comes wardrobe shrink time, and my giveaway pile includes that shirt or those pants. Not good.

The more common mistake – at least for us guys – is to buy something last-minute for a single occasion. Sure we may need it, but do we take a moment to project whether we’ll ever wear that item again? If not, that shirt or tie or sweater is reduced to a keepsake, sitting quietly on the closet shelf just yearning for another wear. That’s my Ireland sweater. Kinda sad, isn’t it?

Admittedly, I have other keepsake clothing. I buy shirts from favorite destinations (hello Guinness), and can’t bear to part with them. I buy shirts with my college’s logo on them, and can’t bear to picture someone else wearing them. I still have an Aloha shirt from our honeymoon in Hawaii (probably the last time I wore it too). No matter – there’s plenty of room in the closet when 25% just went to Goodwill. The purge is not completely pure. My Ireland sweater will live to see another year.

Some content sourced from the Wall Street Journal article, “The Case for Buying Less Clothing”.