If the good folks at Random Reviewer really do intend to evaluate everything eventually, I’m hoping they’ll appreciate a few thoughts on a rather expansive topic:  the future of all humankind.  Our big super-ape brains may make us wonder what will ultimately play out, evolutionally speaking. 

We’re all taught (outside of Kansas, at least) that evolution is a very real but gradual process involving mutations and their suitability for survival.  My wife tried explaining the piecemeal nature of this to our daughter when she was a pre-schooler.  “It takes a long, long time – like a million years – for a monkey to turn into a man.”  Our girl was excited by the prospect that it might soon be the millionth year for some monkey so she could see that happen to him.  I guess it hadn’t occurred to her that the changes would manifest themselves in small increments one generation at a time.  Or maybe she was just extrapolating Stephen Jay Gould’s arguments, thinking there’d be one big punctuated burst of transmutation.  The truth of the matter is, with so many chemicals, viruses, genetic manipulations, and technological innovations now upon us, the impetus for change has never been greater (except maybe when a giant meteor is headed our way).  So a quasi-scientific analysis may be timely.  With that in mind the following is a list of possible directions these mutations could take us and an assessment of their odds in Darwin’s Natural Selection Sweepstakes.

Sensory Upgrades

It’s certainly plausible that the future will confer advantages to those with either heightened acuity in the existing senses or entirely new tools for gauging the physical world.  For instance, what if some variant of the human species could detect pheromones in the opposite sex?  They’d be quicker to pick up on coupling clues while poor Joe “No Pheromo” Schmo’s swimmers would be shut out of the gene pool.  Or maybe some subset of Californians will be sensitive to the subtle warnings given by fault lines just before an earthquake.  They’d be the ones to high-tail it out of there before large chunks of populated earth fall into the ocean, and thus live on to perpetuate their ilk.  That is, unless they’re too preoccupied making big budget disaster films.

[Vegas line:  4-to-1]

Societal Beneficence and Altruism

Many scientists believe that behavioral traits such as niceness are baked in to our genes.  Some expect more of the same going forward.  They reason that those who are helpful and caring are more attractive to mates and less likely to incite the hot-heads of the world.  A more dystopian view maintains that nice guys finish last.  “Scum of the Earth Cads and the Women Who Love Them” is a popular theme, after all.  Consider, too, how future saints could be lulled into thinking that goodness had prevailed and prove themselves incapable of sniffing out dirt-bags.  The world could be overrun by goose steppers.  I wonder:  if the forces of evil write the next chapters of history, will they say they were the ones wearing the white hats?  Has this ever happened before?  Is it all relative?  Discuss.

[Odds:  8-to-1 on Good, 9-to-1 on Evil – a slight edge for virtue, but the more likely scenario being a balance of power between them.]

Enhanced Prevarication Awareness

A more sensitive needle on the internal bullshitometer could mean any number of evolutionary advantages.  Important aspects in life such as picking mates, choosing leaders, winning poker, and avoiding scam artists would be impacted favorably.  Perhaps they’d pick up on a slight dilation in the pupil or a faint tremor in the voice, but this sensitized bunch would read people like an owner can read a naughty dog.

[Odds: 5-to-1.  The outlook for this offshoot would be better, but recent experience with BALCO, Barry Bonds, and the like suggests that cheaters usually stay a step ahead of the detectors.]

Hypertrophic Attractors

What I’m talking about here is super-sized sexy bits.  You’ve no doubt heard that size doesn’t matter.  But what if people do indeed vote with their bedsheets and choose more well-endowed partners, causing a sort of au naturel selection?  A professor of mine enjoyed telling us it’s less about survival of the fittest and more about survival of the sexiest.  While his theory makes sense, I could see how this particular version of it could fail.  What if these organs get in the way of other everyday functions like sitting in an airline seat or standing without tipping over?  Also, might these mega-endowed mutants cease procreating for fear of jeopardizing their adult film careers?  Remember, success in evolution requires some actual baby-making.

[Odds: 7-to-1]

Digital Dexterity and Celerity

If WWIII is fought with what is essentially video game weaponry, we’ll soon see two groups – the quick clickers and the dead.  The long-term viability of this demographic is far from assured, though.  They may lack the diversified skill set to survive.  Who, for instance, would keep them supplied with Biggie Cokes?

[Odds: 15-to-1]

Rapidly Accelerating Changes in Lower Primates

Researchers have noted some remarkable achievements in ape-to-ape language and education recently.  It might make us wonder if monkeys could ever catch up to us.  The genetic overlap between humans, chimps, and orangutans is already well over 90%.  A few more tweaks here and there, maybe a little cross-breeding with Homo sapiens, some radiation, and who knows – maybe we’d have some serious competition.  I’m imagining the Geico cavemen (who are evidently getting their own show now).  Then again maybe the better cultural reference would be those cautionary tales about hierarchical social orders where the underclass rises up against “The Man”, in this case, man.

[Odds: 12-to-1 – though it would be funny to hear their jokes about hairless backs.]

Augmented Gray Matter

Braininess is supposed to be one of the top 3 traits a woman looks for in a man.  It might even crack the top ten on many a man’s list.  The ability of this gifted set to attract mates, clean up in Jeopardy, and vanquish a rival in a battle of the wits would, all else being equal, provide huge selection potential.  But would all else really be equal?  Might these big lobes, in the extreme, correlate with nerdiness (anathema to reproduction)?  Plus, imagine the hips on the mothers who might need 10 inches of dilation rather than 10 centimeters to push out their cranially outsized offspring.

[Odds:  6-to-1 – of course this may play out in varying degrees – we wouldn’t necessarily see a world full of Einsteins, maybe just one with fewer Bushes.]

Technological Enhancements

Man merged with machine – it’s not just the stuff of sci-fi anymore.  A wide array of cyborgs will undoubtedly exist in the future.  Whether this is considered a part of the evolutionary process or not depends on the ability of the imbedded technology to self-replicate.  Recent strides in nano research suggest that this is possible.  If silicon can improve the brain circuitry and nanotechnology can be grafted into stem cells, there’s a helluva lot we humans could do better.  Of course the costs could make the six-million-dollar man look like a blue-light special.  There are other risks to the success of such an entity, too.  If a guy has the whole internet planted in his head, would he soon be surfing himself all day long?  Would employers look to overload the lightening fast workers with extra projects?  How many TPS reports would Lumbergh expect over the weekend?

[Odds:  5-to-1]

Some of you may be questioning this whole exercise.  You may imagine we’ve done enough evolving.  Then again, chances are the pre-human ape-men believed the same thing.  (Ironically enough, many of them thought that they were the pinnacle of God’s grand design and that evolution was just a bunch of hooey.)  That was back in the days when the sine qua non of the whole thing seemed to be walking upright.  In retrospect, given all the people there are with bad backs, I’m not so sure that’s right.  Odds of anything I’ve said being right:  66-to-1.

I’m not really a practical joker. The closest I come is hiding in closets or behind shower curtains or under beds to try to scare my kids. That kind of backfires, though, because then they can’t sleep, and guess who takes the hit for that?

Neither have I been the target of a huge number of practical jokes. Oh, sure, Elden used to put macros on my computer in the old days, slowing down keystrokes, or making WordPerfect type a “g” whenever I pressed “h.” Hilarious.

But, I have been the victim of one particularly subtle and carefully executed joke. In fact, I didn’t find out it was a joke until years later, and even then, only inadvertently.

I’ll start at the beginning, and just tell the story. I’m guessing you all will be smarter than me, and you’ll know right away when the joke starts. I didn’t. The lesson, as always: I am an idiot.

Kim and I have been married for a month shy of 17 years. Before we got married, Kim had lived all over the country, and had graduated high school in Chicago. I, on the other hand, lived in the same house pretty much my whole life, in a suburb of Minneapolis. Kim was hip, cool, worldly. I was, well, not. Kim had followed the Grateful Dead a bit during some of her high school summers. I played a lot of basketball in my backyard.

The summer after Kim and I got married, the Grateful Dead were on tour, and were scheduled to play Las Vegas, and since I was such a schmuck, Kim insisted we road trip to Vegas to see them play. After all, it was inconceivable that the only concert I had attended to that point was the Styx, Paradise Theater tour, and the woman I was married to had seen, well, EVERYTHING. I needed educating.

So we piled into my 1980 Mazda RX 7, and headed south, planning on hanging out on the Vegas Strip until the wee hours, then parking in the desert and sleeping in the car, true Deadhead style.

Somewhere around Cedar City, 3 hours south of Salt Lake City, I was driving, and since Kim and I had been married less than a year, well, er . . .

Let’s just say, the mouse was out of the house for a bit. More exactly, the mouse was out of the house, for a bit, Kim went to sleep, and we arrived in St. George and stopped at a gas station to fill up the tank and get some Diet Coke and other sundries.

Kim kept sleeping, and I filled the tank, walked inside, filled my coke cup, bought my Twizzlers, paid for my stuff, and went outside. I decided to use the rest room since there’s not much between St. George and Las Vegas, so I went back inside. I stepped up to the urinal, went to unzip and free the mouse, and lo and behold, THE MOUSE WAS ALREADY LOOSE! That is, apparently I’d been driving for an hour, and then walking around a crowded gas station buying coke and treats, with my junk aired out. No wonder the clerk behind the counter gave me the stink eye.

I told Kim about my gaffe back in the car, we had a good laugh, and drove away. And that, as they say, was that.

Except.

Flash forward about 5 years. I am now working at Novell, in Provo, UT, in the technical documentation group, as a writer. My boss, Susan Salgy, heads up a team of about 10 writers and editors, a mixed bag of loose screws and uptight tools.

We meet every week for an hour or so to go over projects, deadlines, workloads, movies, and restaurants. During the big meeting, Rebecca, I’m pretty sure that was her name, is telling a story about the time she was in St. George for Spring Break with a bunch of her girlfriends, and there was some guy walking around a gas station/convenience store wearing ratty baggy shorts and a big tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt, with his junk hanging out.

Mark Talbot, privy to the story of my Las Vegas pilgrimage, immediately cries out “It was Doug!”

“Shut up!” I say tightly, kicking him under the table. Miraculously, he does.

Nobody seems to notice our exchange, and the meeting progresses apace and concludes without further incident.

But soon after, I decide the opportunity for comedy is too great to pass up, so Mark and I go to Rebecca’s office and I blurt out, “Rebecca, I’m sorry to say this, but I think I may have shown you my penis. I apologize.”

In retrospect, she was remarkably cool about the whole thing. “What, that was YOU?”

“Yes, yes it was. Well, probably.” So I tell her the story of my Las Vegas trip, and we decide that yes, the timeframe matches up, and I was almost certainly the junk dealer from her spring break in St. George. Crazy coincidence. And no big deal, really, except explaining to my peers why my junk might have been loose in the first place was a bit awkward. But other than that, no big deal. Funny story. Crazy coincidence.

Not.

Is the hallmark of a good practical joke that the chump involved never be let in on the joke? Maybe not, maybe that’s just one way to measure a good joke. Cuz other times, it’s the immediate reaction that’s funny, like with Candid Camera, or these jokes.

It would be another several years before Mark would accidentally let it slip that I was set up. Susan Salgy is a genius. And I will never tell her another embarrassing story again.

Wait, is this on the Internet? Damn it.

--dug

1. Knock Knock Jokes. These are perhaps the bedrock of all joke-based humor (an entirely different category from situational humor), as they tend to have the most universal appeal to all ages, genders, races, nationalities, classes, and sexual orientations (did I leave anyone out?). Who among us does not love a good knock knock joke? Timing is probably the critical issue here, along with order, of course. The uninitiated sometimes say the punchline first and then say "knock knock," or attempt to start the joke with "who's there?", both of which are obviously less effective. A related classic is the reverse Knock Knock joke, where you direct your subject to start the joke and then leave them hanging. Rating: 13 out of 15.
2. Pull My Finger Jokes. This is a somewhat specialized form of humor, and can be mapped using a Venn diagram as the intersection between "Bodily Function Humor" and "Goofy Uncle Humor." Note that this humor must be combined with the ability to fart on demand. Pull My Finger Humor is particularly effective when used on girls under the age of six and boys under the age of fifteen, but must be used in moderation to achieve maximum effect. (Its overuse or use in unexpected settings can sometimes fall under the category of "Ironic Humor," to be covered later.) Rating: 8 out of 15.
3. Venn Diagram Humor. Venn diagrams are an almost infinite source of humor, particularly when referred to by name. Pie charts are also rich humor veins. Bar graphs and line graphs can be used to humorous effect, but aren't nearly as funny in and of themselves. Rating: 14 out of 15.
   
4. Sp- Humor. Most jokes that revolve around words that start with the letters "sp" are at least amusing, if not downright hilarious. Witness these examples: spam, spackle, spigot, spatula, spittle, spurn, and spooge. I could go on, but I choose not to. Rating: 11 out of 15.
5. Puns. Referred to by some as the lowest form of humor, being punny (get it?) in fact has a revered place in the history of humor. However, be forewarned that the best way to pull off this form of humor without getting an automatic groan is to be considered the finest playwright in the history of the English language, in which case you're sure to get a LOT of latitude on this (or any other) point. Rating: 4 out of 15 (unless your name is William Shakespeare, in which case you get an automatic 14 out of 15).
6. Self Deprecation and Self Aggrandizement Humor. Oddly, both putting yourself down and building yourself up can be equally funny. The common lesson to be learned is that the territory between these--fair and honest self-assessment--just isn't very funny. If you doubt me, try this one at a party sometime: "I'm not very good at telling jokes." This will not get you any laughs (unless you happen to be a comic, in which case the statement possbily functions as self deprecating humor). For good examples of self deprecating humor, see any Woody Allen movie. An example of Self Aggrandizement Humor is to begin any sentence with, "The first time I won a Nobel prize...." Rating: 10 out of 15.
7. French and Latin Phrases Humor. For some strange reason, almost all French and Latin phrases are inherently funny, and usable in almost any situation. For example, each time (and this is more common than you might think) someone says, "What is it about the French?", you can safely and hilariously answer, "They have that certain je ne sais quois." Extra points for doing so with a bad French accent. Ditto Latin phrases (minus the bad French accent). For example, were someone to say something like, "Nice weather we're having lately," you could respond, "Weather is the sine qua non of atmospheric phenomena." You wouldn't believe the laughs this will get you. (Note: French and Latin phrases also make great pickup lines, such as, "I'll bet you look great au naturel, ma cherie--up for a little folie à deux?," or "How's about you and me have a little quid pro quo, baby?"). Rating 12 out of 15.
8. Non Sequitur Humor. A kissing cousin of French and Latin Phrases Humor, because its description is a Latin phrase, the non sequitur can be a stroke of oblique genius, leaving your audience in a state of mirthful confusion, unsure whether they should scratch their watches or wind their butts (alas, timepiece humor is beyond the scope of this piece, but could easily fill an entire dissertation). Though there's no wrong way to do non sequitur humor, it is nonetheless something of an art form to hit just the right note of randomness for any given situation. Warning: The use of non sequitur humor in the wrong situations, such as those involving law enforcement officers or mental health professionals, can get you in all kinds of trouble. Consider yourself forewarned.) Rating: 11 out of 15.
9. Verbatim Quotations from Funny Movies Humor. Not only does this form of humor show that you're a person of culture and taste, but you also get to show off your humor chops by choosing the right quotation for a situation. Quotations from any of these movies are particularly effective: Life of Brian, Holy Grail, Big Lebowski, Raising Arizona, This Is Spinal Tap, or any Austin Powers movie. Woody Allen quotations work in a pinch but leave you open to the charge of being a snob. Rating: 12 out of 15.
   
10. Slapstick Humor. This is a very broad category of humor that mostly means this: the physical pain of others, whether intentional or not, is almost always funny. It's one of the best ways of being funny if you can't come up with anything better. Feeling a little dull witted? Why, fall down. If you're squeamish about pain, then inflict pain in random ways on those around you, because that's funny too. For a fine example of this form of humor, see either of the Jackass movies or, for a more sophisticated approach, anything by Buster Keaton. Special note for the more sadistic amongst you: in order for this humor to remain funny, the participants, especially unwilling participants, must not be killed or maimed. Rating: 8 out of 15.
11. Black Humor. Closely related to Slapstick Humor, which relies for its effectiveness on physical pain, Black Humor relies on the truism that the emotional/spiritual suffering of others is inherently funny. Unlike Slapstick Humor, however, there's almost no limitation on the amount of suffering that can be considered funny, as long as it's done right. Rating: 9 out of 15.
12. Ironic Humor. Ironic Humor is the catch-all category for all botched humor. In fact, it's the catch-all for all botched anything. If you've screwed up, you should always insist that you were just trying to be funny. Then you should promptly check yourself into rehab. Rating: 3 out of 15.

Other (lesser) forms of humor to be considered in a future post: Misdirection, Scatalogical Humor, Political Satire, Mother-in-law Jokes, Guys Walking Into Bars Jokes, Shaggy Dog Tales, Lightbulb Maintenance Humor, Sarcasm, Meta-Humor Humor, and Representatives of Major Western Religions Jokes.

I didn’t want to have to do this, but I feel I must review my neighbors. Not all of my neighbors, just the ones across the street from me. To be more specific would be pointless, because, on the one in a trillion chance (so yes, there’s a chance) that my neighbors ever read this page, much less even know who I am, well, everybody on my street will know exactly which neighbor I’m talking about.

Anyway.

I guess what I’ll do is just list the incidents, the stuff, the grist, that sort of thing.

First, the house. The neighbor, let’s call him, hm, George Webber. George built across the street from us, on the view side of the street (we couldn’t afford the view, so we’re stuck on the lame side of the street), so he has the walkout basement, the huge deck overlooking the valley, the hot tub on the deck, the works. George’s house is cool, lots of cool colors, cool paintings, cool lighting, all that. The problem is the color. Sort of. The base stucco is a nice earthy yellow color. But in a botched attempt to make the house look like an Italian villa, George had the stucco done with dark streaks, to simulate 500 years of sitting in a Mediterranean climate. That didn’t work out so well--it looked more like a child had taken black oil and splashed it on every wall. For a year we referred to it as “the haunted house.” Made it very easy to tell people where we lived—“oh, we are across the street from that gross haunted house.” Slam dunk.

After about a year, George went out with his kids and painted over the stucco using the base, earthy yellow color. Not professionally done, but still. Better than haunted.

Last year, George had the yard landscaped, but he burned through several landscape companies, because he kept changing his mind, en medias rex--they couldn't stand the flip flopping. He also spent some time shopping for a landscape company that wouldn’t balk at violating all of the HOA’s rules and regulations. Just when he got the yard about, but not quite, done, his last landscape company up and quit on him--They’d had enough.

Let’s do the family. I don’t really have much of an idea, after two years, what exactly the family make-up is. At first I thought I knew, I thought it was George, his kids from previous marriage who only came up to visit, and George’s girlfriend, hairdresser girl, and her kids from previous marriage, who seemed to live there during the week, but not on weekends. But this last winter, girlfriend disappeared, George came and went sparingly, no kids, and another crazy man seemed to live there, coming and going only during the oddest of hours. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that. Except the oddest of hours part. That can be a problem. More on that in a minute.

Oh, and recently, George seems to be back, with girlfriend hairdresser girl, but no kids. But now with an entourage.

Okay, how about some of the, er, activities. First, crazy winter guy. All during the winter, crazy winter guy would come out of the house at about 3am, and fire up the generator and the water compressor, and start power washing the driveway. Seriously. Like 3 times a week. I should mention that January was very cold, sub zero for many days at a time. So crazy winter guy would power wash the snow and ice from the driveway, and create large piles of ice at the bottom of the driveway, on the sidewalk, from all the power washing.

The power washing was particularly fun, because we would be fast asleep, and awakened by the generator, only to go to the window to see crazy winter guy in boxer shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt, power washing his driveway. In January (about 0 degrees). At three in the morning. Good times all around.

Speaking of three in the morning. George, in his infinite wisdom, spent well above $50,000 (you read that right, fifty thousand dollars. American.) on a house-wide custom sound system, with wall mounted flat screens, the works. Who wouldn’t want that? Especially with the hot tub overlooking the valley in the backyard.

Well, there is a downside. The axiom we live by is, the more expensive the sound system, the harder to figure out. Which isn’t a problem when it’s your neighbor’s sound system, unless he’s installed very large, very expensive speakers in the eaves of his front porch. Pointing roughly at my front door and bedroom window.

The first time Kim and I were awakened at 3am, it was to the strains of the Carmina Burana. And it was so loud our windows were shaking. I stomped across the street, banged on the door, rang the doorbell, and stomped around a good ten minutes until crazy winter guy finally saw me through the window. He sheepishly came to the door, dressed in his traditional sleeveless white t-shirt and boxer shorts. I mutely pointed up at the speakers. He held out his hands, helplessly, and said “dude.” Except he said it like it was a 20 letter word—“ddddduuuuuuuuuuude. It’s a $50,000 sound system. I don’t know how to turn it off.” Eventually we got it turned off. Only to have it turn on when I got back to bed. And then off again. And so on.

This happened several times over the winter. We called the cops a few times, since it was way too cold to go stomping over each time. But the cops would show up, bang on the door, flash their flashlights in the window, and nobody would ever come to the door. But the music would turn off, and the cops would just shrug and leave. Nice. I've seriously considered going over with a hose, and spraying the speakers until they short out, or even just a broom handle, and punching out the woofers, but i figure anybody with a sound system like that also has closed circuit security cameras, and i don't fancy starring on America's Dumbest Criminals.

A month ago or so, we got into bed around 11pm, only to be jolted back awake by the soundtrack to the movie “300.” I knew it was that movie, because it was the scene where the Spartans push the Persians into the ocean. I stomped across the street, and a teenage girl answered. “How’s the movie?” I said. “WHAT?” she yelled. “I don’t live here!” “I don’t care! I just don’t want to watch the movie with you!”

She figured out how to turn it off.

I don’t want to go into each incident. But the most recent one was pretty good. Last week, again, around 11pm, we had just gone to bed, and the music started up. Each time this happens, we lay there in bed for a minute, waiting to see if they’ll realize the problem (they never do).

So I got up and started across the street. Lots of cars, lots of noise (the new thing, now that George is back with entourage, is hot tub parties). I got across the street, and was starting up the driveway, when a dwarf in a swimsuit came running around the side of the house, soaking wet, and ran right in front of me, then disappeared behind the other side of the house. Like I said, hot tub party. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Oh, and he may not have been an actual dwarf, but at first I sure thought he was. Turns out he was more like an 8 year old boy. Same diff.

Just as I started back up the driveway, a woman came around the side of the house, clearly in pursuit of the boy. She was also soaking wet, but unlike the boy, she had no swimsuit. Instead, she was stark naked, and in a full run. She saw me, and without breaking stride, she placed both her hand over her breasts, muttered “this is just too much,” (amen, sister) and continued her way around the house.

Normally that would have been enough to send me back home, but there was no way I wasn’t going to the front door now. I knocked for a minute or two, and when the door opened, I was greeted by a woman I had never seen before, dressed in just a towel, and not a big one. Oh, and Kid Rock’s hat. No kidding. Kid Rock’s black top-hat, except it was furry.

I said “Hi. Do you think you could keep the music on the inside of the house?”

She just smiled, said “sure,” and closed the door. No invitation to stay. I’m quite offended.

Funny thing is, now when I tell people about the neighbors, the women laugh, but the men invariably ask for the address.

--dug

Zen kōans, for the less Zenified among you, are little stories or statements or questions that are supposed to cause your brain to go haywire. If you think about them, they're supposed to cause your thinking process to go all higgledy-piggledy, thus reminding you that rational thinking is pointless, in deference to simply being. Zen masters used to tell them to Zen students (probably still do, I assume). They're also great for things like Kung Fu B movies (and TV shows), during those flashback sections where the student remembers his training.

Naturally, all Zen kōans are not created equal, and today it is my lot to review some examples of the form and pass judgment on them.

1. Two hands clap and there is a sound. But what is the sound of one hand clapping?
This is probably the most famous of all kōans. (It is sometimes mistakenly believed that some even more famous brain teasers, such as "If a tree falls and no one hears it, does it make a sound?" and "Does a bear shit in the woods?" are also famous kōans, but exacting historical research on the part of this author has proved these notions to be fallacies.) The reputation of One Hand Clapping (OHC) as one of the best of kōans is well-deserved, because the sound of clapping is a phenomenon created by the force of the two hands meeting one another, thus causing a small shock wave that is transmitted via the air. If you subtract one of the hands from this equation, you're left with a dilly of a problem: one hand clapping, as best I can determine, would produce no sound whatsoever. And yet the kōan itself asks, "What is the sound of..."? If we assume that "one hand clapping" = "silence" and do a simple replacement, algebra-style, we get: "what is the sound of silence"? The only proper response to this wicked conundrum is, "Whoa, duuude!" Followed by: "Totally."

Steps Towards Nirvana (out of an unspecified amount): 8.

2. A monk told Joshu: `I have just entered the monastery. Please teach me.'

Joshu asked: `Have you eaten your rice porridge?'

The monk replied: `I have eaten.'

Joshu said: `Then you had better wash your bowl.'

At that moment the monk was enlightened.

This kōan sets the mind reeling, because at first it seems too easy. If you've just eaten your rice porridge, then you need to wash your bowl. Well that's just plain old common sense. So common sense is the same as being enlightened? Either that or dish washing. But these answers are much too easy. There must be a trick here somewhere! Are common sense or dish washing the opposite of enlightenment? Dammit, what did the monk realize from these statements that made him suddenly become enlightened? Perhaps it was a complete coincidence, and Joshu could have said anything at all. Hmm, that doesn't seem like that's it. Is the bowl a symbol for something else? You see, I've just started in on this baby, and already I'm nonplussed. Nonplussed like a fox. Because Zenliness is next to um, enlightenment.

Steps Towards Nirvana: Yellow.

3. Sekkyo said to one of his monks, "Can you get hold of Emptiness?"

"I'll try" said the monk, and he cupped his hands in the air.

"That's not very good," said Sekkyo. "You haven't got anything in there!"

"Well, master," said the monk, "please show me a better way."

Thereupon Sekkyo seized the monk's nose and gave it a great yank.

"Ouch!" yelled the monk. "You hurt me!"

"That's the way to get hold of Emptiness!" said Sekkyo.

All stories that end in someone's nose getting seized and yanked are good stories, but stories about enlightenment that end this way are pure genius. It's a little known fact that Larry, Curly, and Moe, in addition to being top notch entertainers, were also Zen masters.

Steps Towards Nirvana: You cannot reach Nirvana on foot, grasshopper.

4. The wind was flapping a temple flag, and two monks started an argument. One said the flag moved, the other said the wind moved; they argued back and forth but could not reach a conclusion. The Sixth Patriarch, overhearing their conversation, said, "It is not the wind that moves, it is not the flag that moves; it is your mind that moves." The two monks were awestruck.

Though it is not well known, this story has a continuation. At that point, a man wearing a suit and tie and sunglasses appeared and cracked his knuckles and he and the Sixth Patriarch began having an elaborate and unbelievably cool looking fight, intermittently in slow motion. The two monks continued to be awestruck.

Steps Towards Nirvana: Let's just dispense with this Nirvana nonsense, shall we?

5. Bashõ Osho said to his disciples, "If you have a staff, I will give you a staff. If you have no staff, I will take it from you."

Your first reaction is to think that somebody made a typo, right? You can admit it. But then you realize, "Hey, wait just a cotton-picking second...this is starting to sound familiar." And you would of course be right: Good old Bashõ Osho (know amongst his friends as B.O.) was no mere Zen master, but the inventor of economics!

--Robert

I keep hearing about “Utah drivers” and how bad they are. You know what’s funny? Everybody who tells me about the lousy Utah drivers are, surprise surprise, Utah drivers (imported or not). Crazy how that works.

It’s like saying that people are stupid. Of course, when you say people are stupid, you mean OTHER people, THOSE people, not you. You’re quite obviously intelligent, good looking, and an excellent driver. And, of course, you never fart. 

You know, think about it for a sec. How many drivers are there, say, along the I-15 corridor of the Wasatch front, an area roughly 50 miles long and by far the most populous area in Utah (admittedly not saying much)? Let’s say 1,000,000. Just for fun.

Okay then, now let’s say you, dear reader (renowned far and wide as an outstanding driver), are not perfect. Let’s say you make an average of ONE driving error per month. One time per month, you get distracted by the box of Krispy Kremes on your lap; once per month you stay in the left lane for a little too long when you want to exit and have to cross a few lanes of traffic; ONCE in a month, you are in a hurry because you got distracted by your spouse as you were leaving the house in the morning, and you’re late for an important meeting, and you spend the entire commute running yellow lights and weaving in and out of traffic and crossing the double white line barring you from the carpool lane.

Well, if there are a million of us here, and each of us makes ONE mistake a month, how many driving errors does that make? Lots, right? Okay? Do we agree? Lots? Enough maybe to account for the stupid drivers we see every day?

Anyway. I grew up in Minneapolis, a decent sized city. I’ve driven quite a bit in places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Houston, Dallas, Chicago, and Miami. Hell, I’ve even driven in London, Paris, Rome, and Munich.

I’m here to tell you—just like people everywhere are a little bit dumb (yup, you and me included), people everywhere are often sucky drivers. No matter where you go, people reserve their right to be rude, arrogant, assholes. Pretty much all over the world. L.A. New York. And yes, Utah.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, there are a few particularly egregious errors frequently seen on the roadways that really get under my skin. This isn't any kid of comprehensive list, that would take more than the fifteen minutes I've got to write this post. But these are the ones on my mind today.

Mind you, I’m not saying I never commit these sins. I’m just saying they get under my skin. They make me yell loudly into my cell phone, or mistype the message I’m keying into my Blackberry. That kind of egregious.

The Enforcer

Top of my list is the guy who thinks he’s enforcing the law and making everybody safer by driving at or below the speed limit in the left lane. Not to be confused with the recent immigrant or grandmother who has no idea what lane they’re in, much less how fast they are driving.

The Enforcer is a misguided vigilante who, in a bit of irony completely lost on him, I’m sure, actually makes the road much more dangerous by forcing everyone to slam on the brakes and careen around him to avoid entering his trunk or truck bed.

Who does this? Do you know anybody who does this? Do you let them get away with it? STOP THE MADNESS!

Egregiousness Level—10

Punishment—Absolute and Permanent Removal of Driving Privileges. And maybe death.

The Blocker

Locals call this the Utah Road Block. You know what’s funny? In Minnesota they called it the Minnesota Road Block. In Italy, they call it “el due cupula grande de la catedral.”

But the upshot is, you’ve got two lanes, and two cars side by side, driving slower than you want to drive. Aggravating.

Egregiousness Level—8

Punishment—Car dies on side of road for 20 minutes, no radio, no cell phone coverage

The No Signaler

Really, this doesn’t bother me so much. I’m going to give these guys a pass. What does bother me, though, is . . .

The Leave Signal On (er)

I hate this. Well, hate is too strong a word. I’m annoyed by this. I would be much more annoyed by this, if I hadn’t discovered this morning that I had left my right blinker on for the entire 20 mile freeway drive in to work. My bad. Sorry red Toyota Truck who flipped me off.

Egregiousness Level—um, 2?

Punishment—some mild embarrassment

The Won’t Let Anybody In (er)

There are assholes everywhere, even in the grocery store line. But there’s something about riding in a one ton steel cage that inspires confidence, even belligerence. Reminds me of hearts, the card game. You have the King or Ace of Spades, someone is smoking, you have limited protection, so you sweat bullets for a trick or two, but once you’ve dropped that Ace or King, you’re the next one smoking for the Queen.

It’s like Kennedy said—Ich bin ein asshole. Or, we are all Berliners. Or something.

I don’t ever do this, by the way. Unless you were blocking me earlier. Then I hunt you down like the dickweed dog you are, and keep you from merging.

Of course the flip side of this is the “what would jesus do” weenie who lets EVERYBODY in. Not as bad, but close.

Egregiousness Level—7

Punishment—Nobody will let you in, and you either have to stay on the freeway until you run out of gas, or drive on the shoulder all the way to your exit.

Of course, I’ve just scraped the surface, but I’m out of time, so I’m stopping. I’ve left off “the weaver,” the “stop 10 feet short of the stop sign/stop light er,” the “drive at address hunting speed, but don’t pull over er,” the “zoom around in traffic in order to totally tailgate the semi in front of me er.” And on and on.

Not that you or I have ever done any of this. At least not in Utah.

--dug

Sorry I took so long to come out with this review, but I was doing extensive product testing. Normally I wash my hair with whatever bar soap Kim buys and has in the shower, but a couple weeks ago I noticed a big green bottle of Garnier Fructis on the shower shelf, with Active Fruit Concentrate. Apparently it’s a “Fortifying Cream Conditioner. For Dry or Damaged Hair.” Which may the be longest title I’ve seen, just edging out Greystoke, The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, a little seen movie who’s chief claim to fame is that they used Glen Close to dubb Andie MacDowell’s unlistenable southern accent.

Anyway. Garnier Fructis.

On the back of the big green bottle, I’m informed that this “innovative combination of ingredients naturally present in fruit helps give strength and shine to your hair” resulting in “Hair That Shines With All Its Strength!” I admit, as far as exotic magical ingredients go, this is lower on the scale than human placenta, which Nu Skin shampoo contains (seriously, PLACENTA! We’re worried about stem cells? Forget stem cells, write your congressperson about the exploitation of human placenta.), and maybe about the same as washing your hair with beer, but still, I’m intrigued. Really? Fruit makes your hair shiny AND strong? Not to mention the fact that my hair will now shine with ALL its strength, instead of whatever paltry percentage of my strength I was devoting to hair-shininess before. Sign me up!

Well, actually, there’s no where to sign up. But here’s what I did—I stopped washing my hair with Ivory bar soap, and started washing my hair with Garnier Fructis. The back of the bottle claims that in very scientific strength and shininess tests, people who use fruit to wash their hair have hair that is FIVE TIMES stronger and smoother. So it looks like they were going for shiny, and ended up with smooth. But the shiny marketing copy was already written and paid for, so they stuck with “For Hair That Shines with All Its Strength.”

After a week of using Fructis, I conducted some experiments of my own, which consisted of pulling strands of hair out of my head, and rating my perceived hair pulling exertion level. I found my hair strength unchanged. After another week, I removed all of the hair from the right side of my head, and constructed a suspension bridge, and ran steadily heavier Lego trucks over the bridge to measure strength. Unfortunately, I forgot to try this experiment before I began using Fructis, so I can’t really comment on whether my hair is stronger than before. But Legos trucks are cool.

I also conducted extremely scientific clinical tests for shininess, which consisted of holding my head up to the mirror under a light. I have concluded that my hair is two times as shiny as before, at best. And I’m not even sure I like shiny hair. But I’m trying to be impartial here.

Finally, I tested for smoothness. I removed all of the hair on the left side of my head, and rubbed it on my cheek.

Hmm. Soft.

But not really softer than before.

Fructis gets 4 apples and 2 mangos. But I think I’ll be going back to bar soap. As soon as my hair grows back and I have something to wash.

--dug

Most winters I backcountry ski a couple times a week, which, in addition to being about as much fun as you can have in the snow, works pretty well to keep me in shape.

This winter, the Wasatch backcountry has been a death trap. And since I have some plans for riding long distances on bicycles this summer, getting fat over the winter is just not a good option for me.

Enter Spinning, a form of torture that works faster than waterboarding. Seriously. After a few minutes of spinning with the queens of death at the Treehouse, I’ll tell you anything. What do you want to know? No kidding, spinning is the hardest formal exercise I’ve ever done, it kicks my ass like nothing else. I hate it and love it and avoid it and seek it out and before it I dread it and during it I want to die, and after it I feel like it was the best workout I’ve ever had.

Clearly I’m conflicted.

I don’t think I need to get into great detail about what spinning is (that’s what the Internets are for.). Let’s just say this—a roomful of fixie stationary bikes, a disco ball, music from the 80s (someone needs to tell the Treehouse that music has been produced since 1989), and Satan leading the class up front.  On the other hand, you control your own bike and resistance, so you can always cheat by turning your knob to the left while everybody turns theirs to the right. Not that I’ve ever done that. Because that would be wrong.

Tell you what, I’ll save you some trouble, and review each of the 3 spinning instructors I encounter 3 days a week. Because Kim is teaching this semester, and I take my kids to the bus stop on those days, when I do make it to spin class, it’s always the 5:30am class on Monday (taught by Trish), Wednesday (Whitney), or Friday (Eve). The time, 5:30am, deserves its own review by itself, but that’ll have to wait.

Trish

Monday morning at 5:30 is a tough time to get anybody motivated. Although, I’m not really motivated by the instructors, I’m motivated by being fat, and by getting dropped by my friends on bike rides.

Trish is very sweet, maybe too sweet. She works you hard, but makes it seem like she’s teaching you your ABC’s. As I go into oxygen debt, my bile rises, but she’s so sweet that I just suck it up and keep my head down.

Likability—8

Hate-ability—5 (and even then, only for a second)

Workout—8

Whitney

I went to Whitney’s class this morning. Sometimes I comfort myself in spin classes that are kicking my ass by thinking that at least I could beat the instructor out on the real road. Unfortunately, Whitney has actually beaten me out on the real road, and her husband toys with me on the trails. I would put a frame pump in Whitney’s spin bike spokes, but they’re solid metal discs, and I would just end up making a fool of myself. Er, more of a fool of myself.

This morning, Whitney had us doing interval after interval (after interval after interval). As in, sprint for 3 minutes, recover for 3 seconds, sprint for 3 minutes, recover for 3 seconds. And so on. She also made us dump out our water bottles and she turned off the ceiling fans. I have reported Whitney to the police.

Likability—8 (damn her)

Hate-ability—6 (because she just chats and smiles while she grinds you into the ground under her stilleto boot, like a mouse in a really bad animal snuff film)

Workout—9 (although, sometimes I get the feeling I’m actually doing permanent damage to myself)

Eve

Eve teaches on Fridays, which is good, because I feel like I need all week to get ready for her. Sometimes, when I go to the gym to spin by myself, because I missed the 5:30am class (well, it IS at 5:30am, for hell’s sake), I see Eve walking around the fitness floor, and the hair rises on the back of my neck, and I get this terrible “fight or flight” feeling, and my palms get sweaty.

I’ve never actually looked at the class descriptions, but I think Eve’s class is supposed to focus on Strength. I’m pretty sure Eve is who Bridget Gregory was based on. When I’m in the middle of Eve’s Friday spin class, I have to constantly fight off the urge to rush the stage and knock Eve off her bike. Two things prevent me—first, my eyes and ears have filled with my own blood because my heart has exploded like a supernova, and so I wouldn’t make it more than a couple steps before passing out, and second, there’s no question Eve could take me in a fair fight. Or any fight, really.

Likability—6 (because even though I’m sure she’s a terrific person, I can’t get over how much I want her to die during spin class)

Hate-ability—9 (I think I’ve been pretty clear about this)

Workout—10 (whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? Yeah, whatever. I’m not sure this is even legal. Eve makes me want to punch myself in the face over and over)

--dug

If you’re old like me, and pop culture gets stuck in your head at the expense of important stuff like your kids’ names and what city you live in, well, then you might remember the old Pepto-Bismal commercial where a Woody Allen look-a-like stares intently into the camera and says “I just need to say two words about diarrhea.” And then he goes on to talk for 30 seconds about diarrhea. [I can’t find the original commercial on YouTube, but this one comes close]

Well, I need to say just two words (give or take) about toilets, the sitting on of toilets, and the washing of the part of one that does the actual sitting on of toilets.

A little background. My side of the family got together at my brother’s house in Park City for a family reunion over the holidays. He lives in a big fancy house up on the mountain, and soon after we arrived at the house, my wife and daughter discovered the best and most unique feature—each of the bathrooms attached to a bedroom sported a Toto Jasmine Washlet bidet toilet.

If you’ve never used a bidet, then you’re probably a little freaked out by the idea, since by definition, a bidet means a stream of water spraying directly on the business part of your ass (or, um, if you’re a woman, and you didn’t go number two, well, then, NOT your ass). I confess, up until this family reunion, one not soon to be forgotten for a variety of reasons, not least because of our new found love of bidets, I was freaked out by the thought of such an intrusion.

Well, no more. I so enjoyed my experience that for Valentines Day, I installed a Toto Jasmine Washlet bidet in my own master bathroom (and yes, I installed it myself, though I needed my bro-in-law to help me fix a leak I caused by stripping some threads). “Why for Valentines Day?” you might be asking. No reason. Except, it’s the toilet of love.

Let’s break it down.

The handy Toto Jasmine Washlet website (I especially recommend the cute little video demonstration of the washlet--it's NOT to be missed--and totally deserving of its own review.) lists the top 5 features, so we’ll take them one at a time.

Convenient Remote Control with Large LCD Panel

The cheaper version of the Washlet doesn’t have a remote, but has the controls along the side of the toilet seat. That’s just gross. (The cheaper version is also lacking several prominent features that are important on Valentines Day.)

The remote was remarkably easy to install, and, turns out, very nice to have. You look to your left, and with the easy touch of a couple buttons, you can totally control the water being sprayed at/into your butt.

Score—8 out of 10 (only 8 because you can’t download music into the bidet)

Automatic Air Purifier

This is a slam dunk. Seriously, just this feature makes the whole thing worth every penny of the outrageous sum of money I’m too embarrassed to tell you I spent on the Jasmine. An automatic air purifier should really be installed anywhere anybody wants to sit down, anytime. Park benches. Bike seats. Under the covers in bed. Church pews (ha!). Kenny’s new FJ40. EVERWHERE.

You sit down, and the seat’s built in infrared detector, um, detects that you’re there, and the washlet, well, let’s use the words of the Toto marketing people: “It's NOT a filter, so there's nothing to change or clean. It works more like the catalytic converter on your car's exhaust – it actually converts the foul air molecules so that they're more like fresh air.” Forget cold fusion, this is the holy grail of science. Why haven’t these folks received their Nobel Prize yet? Maybe they just don’t have the right category. I’ll make some calls.

Score—9 out of 10 (there are some smells that can’t be ionized away)

Warm Air Dryer

I don’t like to wash my car, which drives Kim crazy. On those rare occasions when I do make it to the local automatic touchless car wash, after I get through all the rainbow-colored soaps and rinses and all that, I find myself chomping at the bit during that maddening dryer part. The sign says “Exit Slowly” so that you can have the big dryer dry ALL of your car.

It’s a joke. We all know the car isn’t really being “dried,” rather, the big air blower is simply blowing the water around. Let me say that again—NOT drying.

Well, that’s kind of the deal with the Warm Air Dryer on the Jasmine. The first couple times I used the bidet, I trusted that my ass was dry, and I got up, pulled up my pants, and realized that no, turns out, NOT DRY.

Now I just enjoy a few seconds of warm air blowing the water around, then go ahead and get some insurance toilet paper to avoid the dreaded leg drip.

Score—2 out of 10

Heated SoftClose Seat with Temperature Control

You know, when I think about a warmed toilet seat, I’m not excited. To me a warm seat has always meant that someone just got up from where I’m about to sit. Who needs a warm reminder that you’re sitting where someone else, SECONDS AGO just finished making poo poo. Can we not all please maintain the polite fiction that we’re the only one to ever use the toilet during the REM concert?

See, that’s what I USED to think. And it still applies, in public toilets. But I didn’t install the Jasmine in the bathroom at the E-Center, I installed it in MY bathroom. And there are only about 5 people that ever use my bathroom. And only Kim and I use it frequently enough that I ever even get the warm seat shock.

So, in the comfort of my own home, here’s how I feel about the seat warmer—It RULES! I never knew how much I disliked sitting down on a cold toilet seat until I started using this heated one. So nice. So nice that sometimes, you go in there just to warm up. (You have to be careful though—the website warns that if one adjusts the adjustable temperature too high, one can get low level burns on one’s ass.)

Score—9 out of 10 (this would have been a 10, but now I’m worried about the low level ass burns)

Gentle, Aerated Warm Water

This, of course, is the big kahuna. You sit down, you do your business, and you want to go on with your life as if nothing (nothing but good stuff, anyway) has happened. This, really, is why the rest of the world has bidets in the first place. Not so you can enjoy an oscillating or pulsating stream of water on your nether ye (two actual options on the remote control, and I have yet to discern any reason for their existence other than titillation—not that there’s anything wrong with that), but so you don’t have to, horror of horrors, touch your ass while the possibility of, er, contamination exists. I’m as red-blooded American as the next guy, but really, the rest of the world has this right—that’s just disgusting. No matter how careful you are, someday, the toilet paper will fail, or your aim with the toilet paper won’t be as good as you’d hoped, or, or, or, or something. And then what? Now you’ve got IT on your hands!

But the Toto Jasmine Washlet Bidet lets your forget all that. Forget the warm water, the oscillating, pulsating, customizable spray, and just remember this—you sit, you push the button, you’re clean. Totally worth it.

Score—10 out of 10 (let me restate—you sit, you push a button, and you’re clean. What’s not to love?)

Final Assessment

This isn’t like the Metric System, where we have to rip everything out and start over. You just install these things on top of your existing toilet. It’s time we caved and fessed up. Can’t we just admit that the French aren’t COMPLETELY lame?

Let me put it this way: if you were walking in the park, tripped, fell, and dragged your hand through some dog shit, what would you do? Would you grab a paper towel, wipe off your hand, and blithely go on your way? NO! You would run screaming for the nearest sprinkler, and scrub your hand until it was raw. And you would be right to do so.

Why is your ass different? I mean apart from the fact you don't shake hands or eat with your ass?

And in the end, if you spend a few more minutes relaxing in the bathroom than you ever did before, well, where’s the harm? Maybe you can take up crossword puzzles.

--dug

Editor’s Note: Melinda submitted a guest review last week that didn’t make it past the review board. I dunno, something about Barney and things you tell your kids that you wouldn’t say to your friends, or something like that. Anyway, didn’t quite work. But the indomitable Melinda persevered (or is that perseverated?), and reviewed, sort of, her previously submitted and rejected review and the people she asked to review her review. This review DID pass the review board (such as it is). Enjoy.

I had an epiphany as I watched the American Idol tryouts. In writing and sending my review to you I was in fact behaving like a contestant for the show. The judges were my husband Eric (Simon), Dug (Randy), my friend Janet (Paula), Dug’s wife Kim, & my friend Trent (the celebrity judges). I also sent the review to my father. He is the parent waiting outside the door. Although supportive, he was more concerned that HE was sounding like a cheap Archie Bunker rather than focusing on the overall comedic effect of the review. He also took the opportunity to tell me about a review piece he wrote all about SPAM (yes, the compressed ham covered in what looks like KY jelly). He told me how funny it was and how everyone just loved it. FOCUS DAD—IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU TODAY!

My husband Eric's (Simon) first comment was that it needed a lot of coaching. I asked him if he at least thought the ideas were good and he said they were "workable." Of course, you know Eric. Maybe you don’t. He is constantly commenting about how he could write a better movie, T.V. show, book, or song (that is his latest—although he doesn't even play a musical instrument or read music) than 80% of the people who are already making truckloads of money doing those things. I have to give myself kudos for at least jumping off the high dive instead of just bragging about how I could do a triple off of it. He is a lot like Simon. He is brutally honest. Which is one of the main reasons I love him and married him. Think of it this way—I at least know when my butt looks big in those jeans.

I am the contestant on American Idol who always dreamed about becoming a star, yet hasn't sung a note for over a decade and then wonders why her pitch is off. I am definitely out of practice. I am constantly writing in my head, yet I never put my thoughts on paper anymore. Part of it is laziness, but the other part is the fear of rejection. I submitted some poetry to a magazine once when I was in high school and heard nothing back, which bothered me more than getting a rejection. It felt like what I had written was not even worth a comment to them. You have seen those contestants on the show that are quickly dismissed by the judges with no advice. I don't blame the judges—there are just some people that, no matter what training they receive or no matter how much they practice are just not going to be able to carry a tune. (Can you hear the violins playing? I’ve got a full string quartet going in my head!)

Now that my "poor me" tangent is over I can move on with my review of my review. Everyone loves Randy, you know you do "dog!" Randy is usually the voice of reason. He can shoot it straight, yet not make you feel like you should never even think about humming a tune again. He also doesn't give you the "I think you are a unique and incredible person" speech that Paula throws out there when a contestant is just incredibly disturbing. Yes, Randy is for the most part, politically correct. Dug's initial comment about my review was that he thinks it would be better said in a person to person conversation. True, true, I must admit. I am a talker by nature. I do excel in the area of talking (at least in words per minute). When I speak face to face with someone they can get what I am saying, but when it comes to paper I can become my worst enemy. I find it hard to just write how I talk—at least without using a billion hyphens—and I end up having run-on sentences up the whazoo (whatever that is anyway). I am a list maker by nature—an outliner. I can brainstorm and make lists of ideas quite efficiently. I can also bubble-graph out my ideas—like you had to in junior high. I think I am even pretty good at rough drafts. It is the final copy that always kinks my brain flow. I am OCD—so I over-think and analyze everything to death literally [ed note/question—Literally? Really? You Analyze everything to death “Literally?”]. Just ask Dug how long I can go on about a barbed wire fence. Just review this review of my review—OCD to the nth degree! [ed. Note—dug objects to being compared to Randy. Just thought you should know.]

This is why in my senior year in high school and in college I would always just start and finish my paper the night before it was due. I always received high marks too. I had an English teacher leave the following comment on my paper, after giving me a B-. "You are an amazing writer! I loved your ideas! However, due to the fact that I know you wrote this last night I can not give you an A." What kind of crap is that? I asked him how he knew I wrote it the night before. He showed me all of the simple spelling and grammatical errors (this was in the day before spell check) I had made, which obviously showed him that I had not re-read my paper. I tried to convince him how his grading was unfair. I did not know I was being graded on the amount of time I spent writing it. In fact I told him that my paper would not have been so "amazing" if I had edited it. It's not that I don't think editing is important, it definitely is. It is just that I get crazy. I start to second guess what I wrote and I worry how it is sounding. Will someone be offended? Will the reader know exactly what I mean? By the time I am done with all of my changes I am usually left with something that sounds contrived and that leaves very little room for thought from the reader because I have filled in all the blanks. [ed. Note—a lot like Melinda’s original review.] (Blah, blah blah—doing it again).

Anyway. Paula. Paula, Paula, Paula . . . Paula is the judge that everyone loves. Paula will let Simon and Randy be the fall guys. Once they ring in with their take then she will bring out the band-aids and the juice and try to send you home on the mend. What’s best about Paula is that you are always wondering what she took before she came to the audition. She seems to be easily amused. Janet was my Paula in reference to this review. Honestly, I do not mean that in a bad way. Who wouldn't want a "Paula" for one of their judges. Paula was not there the other night and the contestants were not happy. Janet's response to my review was that it was "so true." It made her laugh—something that she says she doesn't do enough. She also said that she has been laughing on and off ever since, as she finds herself viewing the theories in the real world. Put in her own words—"I am a 42 year old woman, who is not amazingly brilliant and who does not get caught up in grammar or punctuation. But I am a mother and I definitely think that color matters—I laughed my butt off!" I tried to overlook the first part of her statement and focus on the "I laughed my butt off!" part—wouldn't you?

Finally, the celebrity judges. Kim is the perfect celebrity judge. Like the good American Idol celebrity judges she will give you feedback that you can use to mold yourself into a better artist. The fact that she is such a huge celebrity will ensure that you are not offended with her commentary because she "knows" what she is talking about. She is the star—the one who made it big. Not like Simon, whose resume no one really knows or cares about. Frankly, nobody wants to either. If they did then they could not dismiss his stinging comments by saying that he doesn't know what he is talking about. The contestants also love to try and get a rise from Simon by saying, "I bet I sing and dance better than YOU!" What do they think Simon is going to do—get up and have a karaoke dance off with them. The celebrity judge is immune from all of the darts being thrown. Who can make comments like that to Olivia Newton John (the latest celebrity judge) without looking like a complete idiot themselves. Kim is a college professor after all. She knows what good writing is. Her feedback is priceless and accepted with a grateful heart. Unfortunately, she hasn’t given me any feedback yet.

My coworker Trent is another one of my celebrity judges. Trent is an intelligent being (must be—since he finds me amusing) who seems to have a love of Latin and of anything that demonstrates social tendencies in our lives. I mentioned my review to Trent after we had discussed the possible demise of our society by students wearing logos on their shirts. We work at a charter school and uniforms are the daily dress code. However, today was “wear a red t-shirt day” (for heart health awareness). Logos larger in size than a quarter are not allowed to be worn on campus. Which pretty much limits the students to anything with a Nike symbol on it. That rule was thrown out the window today by all of the students. I thought that there may be a lock down by the administration but somehow we avoided a riot. Hopefully we are getting a kickback from Nike—but judging by my recent paycheck I doubt it.

Trent asked me why I thought the students were not allowed to talk during lunch time. [ed. Note—you can’t be serious. Seriously, NO talking?] Since my recent review was fresh in my mind I was able to give him an answer to this random and ridiculous rule. Either the rule exists to keep the lunch ladies from having migraines and going insane or it exists out of spite for the kids since the lunch ladies can not sit and visit while on the job. Anyway—Trent was extremely amused by my ideas. He kept asking me for more. Since I did not have a copy of the review with me I was just talking off the top of my head. I must say that my review was better received in conversation than on paper. (Kudos to Dug for calling it!)

Final Score—With a "No" from Eric, a "sure—what the heck" from Dug [ed. Note, I’m not sure that was my response], an "I laughed my butt off” from Janet, a promise of feedback from Kim, and an anti-social "Amen" from Trent—I think I may be going to Hollywood!

--melinda

When I was in high school, I wanted a Flock of Seagulls haircut more than anything, but I was a shy, awkward boy, and the Flock of Seagulls were waaayy too cool for me. Unfortunately, once I was married, some of my better judgment disappeared. I didn’t get fat, I didn’t stop doing the dishes, but I did start experimenting with my hair.

For example, Me, Elden, Bob, and Robert had a bet to see who could go without a haircut the longest. In a spectacularly obvious show of bad sportsmanship, Bob contracted Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, almost certainly only so that he wouldn’t care so much about his hair. He went about 3 years I think.

Anyway. On one of our many pilgrimages to Moab, in what I think was 1993 (maybe 1994), Brad snapped a picture of me in front of the water tank at the start of the Porcupine Rim trail. The picture is, in many respects, unremarkable. Unfortunately, in other ways, the picture is entirely TOO remarkable. My hair, for example, is remarkable.

I want to point out before we get started, that I am solidly into the heterosexual camp on the Kinsey scale, I’ve been married almost 17 years, and I have three kids. There, I said it.

Let’s begin.

The Necklace

I showed this picture to Kim after Brad alerted me that he had uploaded it to the Fat Cyclist Flickr page, and she wanted to know who the poser with the necklace was. When I told her that I was the poser with the necklace, she said “but you’ve never worn a necklace.” But, turns out, I have one on in the picture. It’s not a chain, but I’m pretty sure it’s a braided leather necklace with some kind of stone. I’m also pretty sure I took it out of Kim’s jewelry box to wear for this trip. I will now repeatedly smash my head on my desk until I pass out.

Style Score—Rad

Gay Score—Fair to Middlin

The No Shirt Look

This is embarrassing. I would NEVER do this today, I would rather die. But for some reason, when first got into biking, in the late 80s, early 90s, lots of people would ride with no shirt. That’s what I keep telling myself. Of course, lots of people did lots of cocaine in those days too, and I never did that, so I dunno. At least I was 20 lbs lighter in those days, and nothing hung over the lycra. I get the feeling we should treat this like history—our job is not to judge, but to understand. Please?

Style Score—HOT!

Gay Score—Off the Hook

The Crotchet Short Finger Bike Gloves

Sure, fashion comes and goes, I get that. But I haven’t used anything but full fingered gloves for road or dirt for about 8 years. What was the deal with those ridiculous little home-spun knit gloves?

You know what? Bob still uses them. It wouldn’t be such a big deal if I saw Bob all the time, but he only comes out every year for Fall Moab. Which makes it kind of like when you see your nieces and nephews every year or two—they’re HUGE now. When I see Bob with those gloves, it’s like he’s so GAY now. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends are gay. Literally.

Style Score—Ridiculous

Gay Score—Actually, I know a couple guys who might be interested

The Goofy High White Socks and Baby Blue and Gray Shoes

There was a time, I rode Slickrock in cut-offs (not the 80s cutoffs with the front pockets sticking out under the shorts, though, yes, I wore those in their day), Teva sandals, and cotton t-shirts. This picture makes those days seem downright halcyon. Nowadays, some people, and yes, I include me in this group, like to bike in tall black socks, just to be weird and bother bike snobs. I can claim no such noble purpose for the socks and shoes in this picture. I will now gargle broken glass.

Style Score—Nerdy

Gay Score—I’m pretty sure no gay person would be caught dead wearing this

The Pose

I’m not sure about this, but I like to think that I’m the kind of guy who DOESN’T pose, but this picture does seem to undermine my position. On the other hand, Brad took the picture about 15 years ago. Maybe I was a poser then. But seriously—what am I looking at so intently off in the distance? And am I flexing? This picture alone is enough reason to ban cameras on guy trips. Do I think I’m posing for the cover of a romance novel? Passion Blooms in the Desert.

Style Score—No, not under any circumstances

Gay Score—a Gay person would be having waaaay more fun with this than I am—I look like I’m trying to pass a coconut

The Hair

The coup de grace, the piece de resistance, the hair is, is, is . . . well, seriously, what the hell is it? It’s not Flock of Seagulls, it’s not Tears for Fears, it’s not anything. Well, anything but off-the-charts stupid. I can’t have done that on purpose. Can’t. Kim would never let me out of the house with that hair, she would shake me off like Nuke Laloosh shakes off Crash Davis. Leif Garret, Donny Osmond, David Cassidy, move over, there’s a new retard in town.

Oh the humanity. I will now boil my own head.

Style Score—sure, if you’re in the Partridge Family

Gay Score—well, maybe. I’ve seen gayer. But not much.

--dug

Let’s not beat around the bush—the snow sucks this year in Utah. How bad does it suck? In the words of Brian Cohen, “A Lot!”

Last year was a banner year, with incredibly deep snow and very stable avalanche conditions. Seemed like every week we were getting out and getting deep champagne powder, without ever worrying about the danger.

This year, not only has the snow been shallow, it’s been rotten. And not only has it been rotten, but we’re in the middle of record cold. Which just adds injury to insult. Literally. In addition to the gouges in my skis from the rocks, the lacerations to my face from the bushes usually completely covered in snow by now, and the divots in my legs from downed stumps just below the surface, I’m pretty sure I’ve also suffered some frostbite on my nose and fingers.

We’re at about 65% of normal. Not for the year, but for the year so far. Last year, Alta got over 600 inches. This year? About 150.

Now, this doesn’t mean Rick S. and I aren't getting out. We still get out about once a week or so. We’ve found good snow, and we’ve seen spectacular things. Last Saturday we hiked from Alpine, UT, up into  the Box Elder Peak’s northwest cirque (check out google earth for a nice view of it. It’s directly east of Alpine, UT, visible in the upper left of this picture). We even found some good snow up there, although it was entirely sugar. Like the turtles in that story of the woman who believed that the Earth sat on the back of a giant turtle, the snow is sugar all the way to the bottom. Although, like in that story, it doesn’t really matter what’s below your skis, as long as something is, right? Turtles is just fine with me.

This Winter does have a saving grace. Because I live at 6,000 feet, I get almost as much snow at my house as the mountains do.  And because it’s been really (really, really) cold this year, the snow doesn’t melt. I have created a veritable Disneyland of Snow in my backyard, and it just keeps getting better. I recorded my boys sledding down the main chute and off the jump, and the tale of the tape says they are getting over 20 feet of distance. On a sled.

Half acre, one shovel, five runs. At least I’m getting my upper body workout.

Score for the ski season so far—2 out of 10

Score for the sledding season so far—10 out of 10

--dug

When I mentioned chocolate popcorn in my review of my eating habits, I got a bit of feedback (mostly negative) about that delicacy. Most can’t stomach even the thought of fudge poured over popcorn, much less the eating. I had similar experiences as a kid with treat philistines. We used to make homemade root beer with Hires Root Beer extract. You take about 10 gallons of water, add about 10 lbs of sugar, pour in a bottle of Hires extract, add some yeast, stir, and bottle (we even had a real bottle capper). Then you leave the bottles in the cellar for a week or so. Bien Voila! Root Beer that tasted like real beer. Which only our family loved. A lot.

Anyway. I make several sweet delicacies.

Plain ole Chocolate Chip Cookies

Really. Just the recipe on the chocolate chip bag. But for some reason, they turn out so good nobody can resist. My kids won’t really eat anybody else’s. I can easily eat a dozen in one sitting, or two dozen during the night, along with a gallon of milk. Of course, I can eat pretty much anything during the night, along with a gallon of milk. I use a baking stone. I go heavy on the brown sugar, light on the granulated. I use Crisco, not butter. And like anybody with a brain in his head, I use Mexican Vanilla.

My Rating—10 out of 10

Audience Rating—10 out of 10

No Bakes (aka, Gorilla Poops)

These never last more than a couple minutes after they’re done. Except Sunday morning, when my 11 year old, Ian, managed to hide several in a Tupperware on a high shelf. He pulled them out next day and ate them in front of us.

These take about 10 minutes. Some butter, some milk, some chocolate baking powder, some peanut butter, and some oatmeal. The trick is to only boil them for a minute and a half. Too short, and they’re goo. Too long and they’re too crumbly. Not that either mistake keeps us from eating them.

My Rating—10 out of 10

Audience Rating—9 out of 10 (cuz Holden doesn’t like them. He sulks when we make Gorilla Poops, which often results in a batch of Gorilla Poops and a batch of chocolate chip cookies. Do these cookies make me look fat? No, you’re face does.)

Scotcharoos (aka, better Rice Crispie Treats)

You can tell, I’m no gourmet. I just like sugar and chocolate. These are another one we’ll snarf in about 10 minutes. Put a cup of corn syrup, a cup of sugar, and a cup of peanut butter on the stove (not directly, but in a saucepan). Heat to just short of boiling, remove, add 6 cups rice crispies. Smash into a cookie sheet. The smashing is very important. If you don’t smash them, they just fall apart, and that’s wrong. These are supposed to be mashed. Then melt a bag of chocolate chips and spread over top.

Why are they called Scotcharoos you ask? Because some people use butterscotch chips. I don’t. I don’t like butterscotch. If I used butterscotch chips, then I wouldn’t put them on this list, cuz then I wouldn’t like them. I think you can see where I’m going with this.

My Rating—10 out of 10

Audience Rating—9 out of 10 (I dunno, some people can resist these. I can’t.)

Gingersnaps

My mom used to buy bags of gingersnaps at the grocery store. They were rock hard, small, and I ate them by the baker’s dozen. Mine are soft, chewy, and I eat them like popcorn. I like them with a little extra ginger and a little (a lot) extra ground cloves. It always makes me feel mischievous, like I’ve just rolled and smoked a clove cigarette or something.

For some reason gingersnaps always give me, um, an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach when I’ve eaten a dozen or so. Maybe it’s the cloves?

My Rating—10 out of 10

Audience Rating—9 out of 10 (another mystery. You would think 10 out of 10, but these are the numbers.)

Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Frosting

Maddy (my 13 year old daughter) won’t eat chocolate cake, she only likes white cake, white frosting. Maybe she was adopted. I make Betty Crocker Devils Food Cake With Pudding In The Mix, and I make Fudge Frosting (butter, bakers chocolate, milk, and lots and lots of powdered sugar, and a little (you guessed it) Mexican vanilla.

I like the frosting thick. In fact, I cut the cake, and pull out my piece(s), cut the bottom half of the piece(s) off, leaving only the part that clings to the frosting, and eat that. Sometimes in a bowl of Breyers Vanilla Bean ice cream. I can hear myself getting fatter.

My Rating—10 out of 10

Audience Rating—9 out of 10 (cuz of Maddy. She’s like an anchor.)

Total Score for my Treats—10 out of 10 Because even if nobody is around to eat my treats, I will eat them all myself. But I’ve got to have an entire gallon of milk to do it. But at least it’s Skim milk. Cuz I’ve got my figure to consider.

--dug

I've distributed this write up to a small group of you previously. But if you're as concerned as I am about the alarming paucity of Random Reviewer content being produced by tweedledee and tweedledum, you won't mind.

The first thing you see when you look at the elevation profile of the St. George Marathon in southern Utah is that it seems to be nothing but beautiful, gentle downhill between the start line way out in the high desert past Snow Canyon, and the finish in downtown St. George, UT. Bullshit. You run a rolling course for the first 20 miles (slight overall elevation loss, some really huge uphills), and lose almost the entire chunk of elevation down an 8% grade road between miles 20 and 23. Just what you want after 20 miles of running: a road so steep they have to put a brake test area for trucks on the side of the road.

I’ve got some thoughts about marathoning that kind of coincide with the way the race went for me. First, the start. It’s dark, it’s crowded, and everyone is waiting for a bathroom. You hydrate for a week, and try to lose it all in the 5 minutes before the gun goes off so you won’t waste time during the actual race. Turns out, most runners still need to stop a time or two during the race. Some more than others. And some don’t stop at all, even though they probably should.

The gun goes off, everybody cheers, and nobody moves. There were something like 6,000 people signed up for this race; it takes a while to get a train like that moving. I had time to run to the bushes one last time and still make the start. Not that that helped.

I’ve heard the first 10 or so miles of a marathon described as “the stupid miles.” Ain’t that the truth. Everybody is happy, friendly, if you’re with someone, you joke and talk. The grim death march that is the last 6 miles is nothing but a shadowy foreboding, hardly even at the back of everyone’s minds. My brother-in-law and I spent the first several miles admiring the people around us. There was one huge man in a muscle shirt and gym shorts who startled us by making continuous horse noises as he ran. He’d apparently discovered some kind of tantric breathing mechanism that conserved oxygen as he ran that involved the fluttering of his lips every time he exhaled. As we watched the horseman go by, he actually lifted his arms and admired his biceps several times.

Another woman appeared to be some kind of perpetual motion machine, or maybe she was under the impression that she was still in her basement running on her elliptical trainer. Her peripatetic gyrations kept us amused for at least a mile or so. That is, until she disappeared up the road.

That’s right. Up the road. See, before you get all self-righteous on me and complain about how I’m making fun of people, let me tell you, I know these people can kick my ass. The first time I rode the Leadville, just as I was about to cross the finish line in a very respectable time of about nine and a half hours, I was passed by a sprinting 55 year old man on a rickety old rigid bike. I’m pretty sure he was also wearing jeans and a hockey helmet.

That’s one of the things about racing, endurance racing in particular. I can’t really speak for the people up at the front of the pack, for obvious reasons, but the cool (or demeaning, depending on your perspective) thing about endurance racing is that it is a fairly level playing field. Spazzes, old people (older than me, I mean), whatever, you can compete. In fact, these aren’t really races. They’re “events.” About 1 percent (yes, I pulled that number out of my ass) of the participants are actually racing. The rest of us are simply participating, and maybe racing against ourselves and our own private disabilities.

It’s a beautiful thing. The hard body encased in lycra (and I’m not placing myself in this category, again, for obvious reasons) is as likely to get passed in an endurance event by an old fat guy in jeans and cowboy boots as by a fellow 24 Hour Fitness aficionado. The grandmother who runs like she’s constantly swatting at a swarm of bats around her head is as likely to drop your ass as the 19 year old track star in the $200 shoes.

Anyway.

So the course rolled gently for several miles, and descended for a mile or two to mile 7, the Veyo valley. Eric and I had been running together pretty well, keeping to about a nine minute pace, which I was hoping to pick up in the second half and maybe average it out to around an 8:45 pace by the finish. But as we reached the valley, we could see a monstrous hill in front of us. This was no gentle roller, no gradual incline. It was more like a mountain pass, a five percent grade that climbed the flank of an old volcano for about a mile.

Luckily, at the bottom, I had reached the point where 7 miles of running had finally settled my huge Outback Victoria Filet dinner from the night before into my lower midsection, so I told Eric to go ahead and tackle the hill, because I needed to sit for a bit. Several people had the same idea, so it took me quite a long time to get the privacy required. It’s not as if I could use the side of the road just then, because there was a television news crew wandering the road right there trying to find out if runners were afraid of the mountain in plain sight up the road.

Here one is faced with a racing dilemma. You wait in line for a toilet. You finally get your chance after several wasted minutes. You do your business in record time. But due to race food and nerves, it hasn’t been the squeaky clean procedure you were hoping for. How much time do you spend on cleanup? You’re sweaty, you’re hot, you’re tired, and it’s only going to get worse in the 19 miles to come. Who cares? I compromised, and used half a roll instead of the whole roll I would normally consume. I ended up facing this dilemma 3 times during the race. I like to think of these pit stops as rejuvenating, rather than delaying. Wish I’d brought a magazine.

Which brings me to another thing that MUST GO. If one is racing, rather than participating, competing and contending rather than recreating, I can understand the urge to maintain pace, to not let nature get in the way of speed. But there were old women on a 5 hour pace who would simply move to edge of the road, and without breaking stride, pull their shorts to the side and expertly pee as they ran. What’s up with that? Lance Armstrong, I can understand peeing from the saddle. Grandma Wilson rolling along doing 11 minute miles? Hello? There was never a time during the race, until we entered St. George at about mile 23 that I didn’t see someone either sprinting for the bushes or returning from the bushes. Seems appropriate enough (discounting the eco-damage). But peeing mid-stride? So you can finish in 5:10 instead of 5:11? Stop it.

Anyway.

Outside again, I approached the point in the road where the young news reporter was asking passing runners if they were worried about the huge hill in front of them. I had worked up a complicated shtick to use: when she asked me about the huge hill ahead, I would blithely ask “what hill,” and when she pointed it out, I would grab my head with both hands, shriek, run around in circles, and re-enter the outhouse. That would be sure to get me on the evening news. But as I ran by, the woman totally ignored me. Not photogenic enough I guess. Another good joke died without an audience.

The hill was a monster, but I treated it like a bike climb. Just keep your head down, don’t look at the top, and churn. Many people were walking this hill, which might have been a good strategy, saving the juice for later, but I couldn’t resist the challenge. I ground it out, and at the top, I was just about to raise my arms in triumph, when I realized that I had only reached a change in grade, that the course didn’t stop climbing for another couple of miles, just visible on the horizon. Damn them all to hell. No, not the apes, the course designers.

About half way to the summit, I rejoined Eric, but he seemed to have slowed a bit, maybe as a result of having 7 miles be his longest training run of the year. We ran together for a half mile or so, and I bid him goodbye. I still had an idea of finishing in close to 3:45, and I wanted to see if I had it in me. (Spoiler Alert: I didn’t.)

I had expected to see my lovely and talented wife at about mile 16, and as I was approaching that milestone, I felt as good as I had felt the whole race. Passing the aid station, and coming up on the raft of spectators that had managed to find this remote outpost, I started running faster, and was prepared to raise my arms over my head again, and shout “I’m King of the World!” But Kim had been deceived by the creaky old lady at the registration booth who gave her directions on how to get to mile 16, so I only got to show off for the volunteers and voles.

The scenery was fantastic, and this part of the course was mostly gentle downhill. Until the big, unlisted nightmare hill at mile 18, which almost broke my spirit. Almost. But I’m a survivor.

Hitting mile 20 in a marathon is like going down the rabbit hole. Everything’s different down there. The same old rules don’t apply (Pi is a round number, gravity accelerates things at 40 feet per second per second, and Idaho is not a red state), and you do whatever’s necessary to survive. You pick out spectators and make their faces mental targets of verbal zingers to motivate you to finish. You fashion slights, however trivial, to create emotion and energy. And here in St. George, mile 20 is also where the road drops off the edge of the Earth. “Here Be Monsters.” And how. Only instead of “Here Be Monsters,” the sign at the side of the road says “8% grade ahead, brake check area.” It would be better to curl into a ball and roll down the road.

Running downhill can be fun. Trail running, it can even be exhilarating. After 20 miles of marathon running, it’s hell. But what are you gonna do? You run. Every step pounds your quads, and the blisters on the balls of your feet pop every couple of steps, and quickly reform new blisters on top of the old ones.

I saw my beautiful and supportive wife at mile 23. She seemed to have been expecting me earlier, so I had to wave my arms to get her attention, but she responded wonderfully. She ran (slow enough so I could keep up) along side me for a while in her sandals, yelling encouraging things into my ears, and telling me how good I looked, when I knew damn well I looked like smeared dog shit. She did her best, but a marathon is 26.2 miles, and she only got to run with me for about .1 miles of it. It’s lonely out there.

The last couple of miles are still kind of blurry, and I’m not sure if the passing of days has clarified my recollection, or simply blurred it, but this is what I remember: I remember the kind generosity of cheering citizenry, who had garden hoses spraying down grateful runners. I remember helpful aid station volunteers handing out hand towels soaked in ice water. And I remember little gremlins chasing me and biting at my feet.

I managed to motivate myself for at least a mile, from 24 to 25, by screaming at the little beasts. Out loud, using language that would make Quentin Tarantino blush. It certainly made the kindly old ladies blush in their lawn chairs in this quaint Southern Utah town. But it got me to the final turn.

The downside is, the final turn is almost a full mile from the finish line. I turned off Bluff Street, and I could see the big blue balloon archway of the finish line at the end of the road. So I turned it up a bit. But after a hundred yards or so, I was ready to die, so I had to back off. I think I kicked for the finish line at least 4 times. By the time I actually crossed the finish line, I had no kick left, and I barely crawled across the line, glanced up at the finish time of 3:53:27, and camped for several minutes in front of the first water mister I saw. Then I knelt down and removed my shoes, and crawled to a shady spot in the grass, laid down, and wept.

St. George Marathon Final Scores

Marathon gets an 8

I get a 2

Running gets a 0, and my big fat middle finger

--dug