Backpacks

There is a very real misconception out there and I’d like to take the time to correct it. Backpacks are meant to be worn on your back and not down about your butt. I know…I know it’s confusing, “why would they put such long straps on a backpack if you aren’t suppose to extend them all the way?” But, we’ve seen this kind of mistake before.

For the longest time people didn’t understand what those tiny little loops surrounding the waist band of their pants were for. This unfortunate error led to an entire generation having to wear their pants around their knees and boxer shorts to avoid embarrassment. Fortunately, as our amazing race always does, one bright lad saw the loops and discovered, by slipping a finger through one, he could hold his pants up! This revolutionary adaptation, while limiting dexterity, gave man the use of his legs again. The importance of this evolutionary step, linking modern man to his less mobile cousin of old, cannot be underestimated. Of course, in modern times, we’ve eliminated the problem all together by making men’s pants so tight there is no chance of them ever falling down or even coming off. While this newest develop does limit our ability to procreate, we will never have to wear boxer shorts again! In that regard, country western singers were way ahead of time.

Backpacks are the logical next step, if we don’t want our children calling them asssacks, we’ve got to find a way to tighten those straps. I know it might be uncomfortable at first, but if that brave young man could slip his finger through that loop and pull his pants up for the decency and mobility of all mankind then you can wear your backpack on your back.

Hoping for Change

Well, its official folks, the economy is in the pooper and we’re all doomed to lives of rags and old cabbage. I know it’s depressing but we’ve got to play the cards we’re dealt and keep our chins up. Let’s keep hoping for change, both literally and figuratively, and maybe the change fairy (named Hope coincidently) will dump a whole load of it in our collective back yard. Where we can bag it up and take it to the local Wal-Mart with one of those coin counting machines. You know the ones that count your money and take half of it; but at least you don’t have to count it yourself. Then maybe we can figure out just how much change Hope brought us. Until then, here are some common sense ways you can tighten the old belt strap until that mischievous little sprite arrives:

1.) Develop a color coded, bar-graph-like, warning system to tell you what your current financial situation is. I’m telling you folks, it’s the first thing our government did after 9/11 to warn us about potential terrorist threats and we’ve been perfectly safe ever since. If there’s an impending disaster, it’s better to be prepared. Besides, if you can keep your finances in the yellow to orange region, you should be just fine.

2.) This next one is just plain common sense. If you’re short on money and can’t pay your bills you need to start making more. I mean it, start making more money. Granted, the paper can be a little hard to come by and the holographic images are a bitch, but the payoff is fantastic. You can pretend you don’t have any financial problems indefinitely!


3.) Finally, if one of your investments is bringing down your whole portfolio (oh, I don’t know, let’s just say something in auto industry) you should never just cut your losses. No way! I say throw everything you’ve got at it and if you don’t have anything left, it’s time for an eighth mortgage. You never know, it maybe your money that keeps them afloat. Besides, the more money you give them the more likely they are to get it right in the long run. It’s pretty much a win-win for everybody.

I know it can be tough, but it’s important for us to follow the examples set by our elected officials. Remember, if it’s good enough for America then its good enough for you. In the mean time, don’t give up, keep hoping for Change and changing for Hope.

BAN THE BULGE!!!

I’ve decided to take a stand. I am wholeheartedly against spandex. I realize, that spandex, in and of itself, may seem harmless enough; but in the wrong hands (read: on the wrong behind), I assure you, it’s deadly. You might argue that it looks fine on some people to which I would say, that may be; but on the vast majority of us it does not look fine. And because of that said vast majority I am recommending, nay demanding, that spandex be ban in all its forms. Let’s face it, being naked, without really being naked is not okay. Let’s not allow these “decent” exhibitionists to literally stretch the moral fabric of our society. You don’t see nudist colonies anymore, that’s because they’ve all purchased really expensive bicycles, “clothed” themselves in spandex and now flaunt their goodies at every neighborhood coffee shop in America. Don’t let their friendly banter or disarming smiles fool you, they’re the same shaved legged perverts who used to play “all natural” volleyball behind privacy fences. Thats right forlks, they've taken their “show” on the road, but it doesn’t mean we have to stand for it. Unite with me in stopping this very real threat to the very sensibilities that made us great. Say, no to spandex and BAN THE BULGE!

The hand's off landlord

Paul and I are heading up to the mountains for a Labor Day Vaca. Being the responsible tenants that we are, we called our landlord to ask if he wanted us to pay next month's rent before we left or if he wouldn't mind waiting till we returned on the 2nd. I should preface the following story with some anonymous details of our landlord.

One, he had our apartment's previous tenant find the new renters, us. Two, he prefers cash. Three, we have yet to meet him at the same place twice.

We called him on the phone and are literally walking out the door to drive to the mountains and he asks if we could pay today rather than wait till we return on Tuesday. We said ok, and where did he want us to meet him. He gave us instructions to another one of his properties, this one called “Smuggler's Cove” and to meet him at 1:30pm. We kill a couple hours and reach the complex at 1:25 and call back to get the condo number. He says it will be the one with work trucks outside and presumably the garage door open. He also waits till now to inform us that someone named Andrew will be receiving the cash. Paul had pulled over on the side of the road to receive these oh-so-specific instructions and 90 seconds into the conversation enters older gentlemen onto the scene. He pulls up to the window and rolls down his passenger window, motioning for Paul to roll his down. Paul obeys but is still on the phone. This is when aforementioned person proceeds to berate Paul for apparently having blocked his ritualistic tight turn onto the Smuggler's property. Clearly Paul is on the phone, as it's up to his left ear. The guy isn't deterred and continues to yell at us while now completely blocking the road to both lanes in desperation to make his point. He starts to angrily wave his cell phone in the air, miming that if we don't move he's calling someone. Paul pulls forward slightly, I guess enough to satisfy the constipated grump who drives off to leave Paul to finish up with our landlord. It still takes us a few loops around the apartment/condo/duplex homes to find the one he was talking about. Paul runs inside, pays the Andrew character, also getting him to sign a torn envelope that he received it, and then we're off for a three-day weekend away from the crazies.

Who's your Daddy?

So this update is long over-due and I have a list of excuses, yadayada yada so let me just get on with it.

We have settled in Boulder Colorado for the time being; at least until life decides to pull the asphalt up to our door again and drop us off again at some other near or distant location. Paul got a job at the Boulder REI and he starts CU Boulder orientation August 18th. On that same day I will begin setting up my classroom/"pod" with my 2 fellow teachers at Boulder Journey School, referred to as BJS. In a long list of ironies that is my life, add to it one more: it is New Zealand's sister school I was previously working at and of which I wonder how related it is...its vaguely similar in that it shares the same basic philosophy of teaching but culture, location and a variety of personalities that make up its framework give it vast differences. (If you are privy enough to know my personal blog, check there for more oddities, or email me for the account.)

Now for an anecdote: Paul and I thought we'd use our time this summer to slam ourselves into shape for living at 5,400' above sea level (1,650 for you metric lovers). Paul has signed up for his first marathon this September and I recently competed in my second triathalon...I'm not going to get nit-picky with sharing details, suffice to say I didn't drown during the swimming and actually crossed the final finish line by myself, (and i use, 'by myself' loosely). The week prior to my tri, Paul suggested we do a training ride from Boulder to Lyons, a town about 18 miles away. I was all for it, especially since there was rumor of a coffee shop and I'm a sucker for beans. The ride was fairly routine including a few butt-numbing hills and we made it to Lyons in good time and start our search for a java shoppe. We spot one on main street. I get the usual, black fully-leaded, and Paul orders his. We choose a table outside for a few reasons: 1, we want to keep an eye on our bikes, 2, we wanted to save fellow patrons from smelling our lycra and 3, we wanted to save fellow patrons from staring at our lycra clad bodies. I sit down while Paul waits inside for his order. Immediately a friendly six-year-old girl hops up on the chair next to me. We start to chat about the lap dog that she just 'rescued' from another patron one table over who is now being dragged by its collar while afore mentioned kindergartner forces her threw a maze of table legs. Paul sits down and we start to ask her about her summer and if she's having fun, etc. Mid conversation she stops, looks at Paul, looks at me and in a voice reserved for secrets among playmates turns to me and asks, "Is he your Dad?" I try not to laugh. Paul shoots me a "not funny" glare. And almost before I can answer the dog-dragging girl is onto another subject. I could look at it two ways, obviously neither is good: she thinks I'm about 10 years old or that Paul is 40. Paul wasn't too excited about her observation but at least it made for a good story.