tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77754455137046928882024-03-13T09:52:14.359-06:00Trout's GrottoAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-70348911130203439022010-10-17T18:35:00.003-06:002010-10-17T19:10:24.321-06:00What love looks like<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/TLuaEqbAU3I/AAAAAAAAG1E/6RPh7ugj-2E/s1600/deer+009.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/TLuaEqbAU3I/AAAAAAAAG1E/6RPh7ugj-2E/s320/deer+009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529182372425126770" /></a>Those of you who read my last post may be wondering how things are moving along. Well . . . so am I frankly. I haven't made any hard and fast decisions about anything but, WOW, was I surprised by kindness this week. In the picture on the left are two real world angels, Arlina and Brianna. They not caught wind of my sorrow, but decided to take action.<div><br /></div><div>I was called out of a meeting Saturday, told that there were two young ladies who wanted to see me. I honestly had no idea who they might be but as I walked down the stairs I saw them . . . huge smiles on their faces . . . bearing the most wonderful basket of gifts.</div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't believe my eyes as they presented the gift to me, homemade bread, cookies, hot cider and a lovely long-eared rabbit. They had created this masterpiece with their own hands, carefully debating on what it should contain and put it together with pure love.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turns out that they had collaborated with my lovely bride who told them of my peanut allergy - they didn't want to kill me - :) They also found out what my hours at work were so they could deliver it in person. </div><div><br /></div><div>They told me that the basket was quite a miracle, they said that their baking normally wasn't what you would call "successful", it had much room for improvement. But these baked goods came out perfectly. They also said that the perfection could in part be credited to Brianna's mom who prayed over the bread before it went into the oven. I have to say, it's mighty good.</div><div><br /></div><div>They also said the most wonderful and moving things about me, how they appreciated me and our friendship. They made me feel 10 feet tall. I am forever grateful for these two angels in my life. I am humbled that they are so kind to one such as me.</div><div><br /></div><div>For whatever reason, I have made an impact on these two lives who have in turn showered joy on me a hundred fold. I am so incredibly fortunate to have friends of such character.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you Arlina and Brianna. You have given me the gift of hope, I shall never be able to repay your kindness.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-59322526966152826672010-10-10T20:54:00.003-06:002010-10-10T21:12:31.481-06:00Loss . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/TLJ_BDEsK1I/AAAAAAAAG0w/WFlPkqKek1I/s1600/empty_chair.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 193px; height: 262px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/TLJ_BDEsK1I/AAAAAAAAG0w/WFlPkqKek1I/s320/empty_chair.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526619348718594898" /></a><br />So, I'm not very good at processing loss. Especially when it comes to people in my life. I'm not talking solely about death, I'm also including friends moving away or leaving. I realize that it's a natural part of the river we call life. Rule 1: Things change. I certainly don't have to like it.<div><br /></div><div>I am fortunate to have many hobbies I enjoy: music, bike riding, swimming, water polo, birdwatching and - if I may - Facebook. Each pursuit has with it its own cast of characters, each person bringing to the table a unique and special quality. A necessary strand in a larger rope, a connecting link in a chain so to speak. When someone moves along, the chain is broken. A part is missing, it will never be the same again. </div><div><br /></div><div>After someone is gone for whatever reason and the activity continues it's hard for me not to see an empty chair in the room. A chair that cannot and will not be filled. The magic is gone. It leaves me feeling deep sorrow. It matters little whether or not the change was a healthy one, my grief remains strong. I wait and watch the door, hoping that the missing person will walk through and all will be right, but it will never happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I heal very slowly from such things. Processing them minute by minute. I hate it, I wish I wasn't as deeply affected as I am. But I suppose that is who I am now. Someone easily injured. Perhaps it comes with the territory of being involved with people, building bonds and learning to love. Perhaps life would be simpler and less painful if I were to stop building friendships. I wonder though how fulfilling a life without love and friendship would be.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe the pain is worth the effort.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-51668060516735193582010-02-18T20:03:00.004-07:002010-02-18T20:53:55.147-07:00My trip to the DMV<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S34Ki0fgDOI/AAAAAAAAGoc/4R7vlt05IUE/s1600-h/5214_104870437012_672562012_2228148_7232644_n.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S34Ki0fgDOI/AAAAAAAAGoc/4R7vlt05IUE/s320/5214_104870437012_672562012_2228148_7232644_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439796993232735458" /></a>It happens to the best of us. Once in a while we lose/have stolen/misplace our wallet. My latest incident involved my wallet being stolen from the Rec Center locker room as I swam. I was a little irritated, I had to cancel my credit card and I was out twenty bucks . . . could have been worse.<div><br /></div><div>The worst part of something like that for me is getting a new driver's license. Nothing good ever happens at the DMV.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked online at the fees, so I could plan my trip. I found twenty dollars cash in my truck, I was hoping to get it done on my lunch hour and for time's sake, avoid a trip to the ATM.<br /><div><br /></div><div>No Problemo!! To replace my driver's license was only gonna cost $7.50. What Luck! I would have plenty of time and wouldn't have to get any extra cash.</div><div><br /></div><div>I bomb over to the DMV at lunch and establish my place in line, fortunately it was short. When it was my turn, I explained my situation and told her that I needed a replacement copy of my lisence. She said that it would be no problem, I had brought my passport for ID purposes. She gave me some paperwork to fill out and sign . . . then an eye test . . . then a question or two about organ donation . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>Then she says, "That'll be $21.00".</div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "Excuse me?" My hearing is pretty poor, I was sure she didn't say $21.00.</div><div><br /></div><div>She said again more directly, "That'll be twenty one dollars."</div><div><br /></div><div>She had <i>renewed</i> my license since it was so close to the expiration, instead of just issuing me a copy. Hence the added cost.</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked at the twenty in my hand and put it down on the counter. I said to her with my biggest puppy dog eyes, "This is all I have". She didn't respond verbally, she only looked at me with raised eyebrows as if to say . . . "So? That's not enough."</div><div><br /></div><div>I was screwed, I didn't want to lose my place in line and I was running out of time. I turned around to the people in line and said, "Does anyone have a dollar I can borrow?" To my complete surprise NO ONE was willing to give me a dollar. NO ONE!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>I stood there in silence for a minute and then said to the woman at the counter, "I'll be right back." I went outside to my truck and looked all over, under the floormats, in the ashtray, the glove box, the console, behind the seat and was only able to come up with 60 freaking cents! I spent the next several minutes skulking around the Trading Post parking lot behind the DMV, combing the asphalt for spare change. People watching probably thought I was trying to put together enough money to buy a 40 oz. Ol' English.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally I put together enough pennies and nickels to make a dollar. I went back in to the DMV and couldn't believe my eyes. No one had moved . . . the entire line of people waited for me to "bag lady" together enough change to make $21.00. I thought it served them RIGHT for not letting me have a dollar!!!!</div><div><br /></div><div>I placed the sweaty, dirty handful of mismatched coins on the counter in front of the lady and said with a smile, "There you go, twenty one dollars". She counted it and carefully put it all away and said, "alright, let's take your picture".</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to remember the happenings of the day, I stepped in front of the lovely backdrop placing the toes of my shoes on the blue masking tape mark, I messed my hair up with my hands as best I could, making it look like I'd woke up underneath a freeway bridge, gave her my biggest smile and she captured our "moment" for all eternity.</div><div><br /></div><div>I handed my driver's license to a young lady this evening as I was buying some clothing, she got a huge chuckle out of the picture. She even passed it around to her co workers who in turn smiled and laughed. I'd say my new licence is a HUGE hit!!</div><div><br /></div><div>I may never have it redone. </div><div><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-77725054818942318602010-02-18T08:36:00.011-07:002010-02-18T12:54:13.587-07:00Try it . . . you'll like it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S32GJMSsOVI/AAAAAAAAGn8/Rjd-acQz-N4/s1600-h/evil-latte.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S32GJMSsOVI/AAAAAAAAGn8/Rjd-acQz-N4/s320/evil-latte.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439651417409993042" /></a>I've never been big on change. I take great comfort in a certain amount of sameness and routine in my life. New stuff worries me and makes me feel uncomfortable.<div><br /></div><div>Like any typical man I like certain things: Levi's 501 jeans, boxers, a nice cotton t-shirt, eggs over-medium, cowboy movies, the World Series . . . etc. Life seems so simple when at the clothing store I can pick up my old favorites, throw them in the washer and KNOW that everything is gonna be fine.</div><div><br /></div><div>This "ailment" also infects my culinary choices. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't dine out all that often but when I do, I have a plan. When I dine at Nero's, I like to get the lasagna. I've never tried anything else; why should I? The lasagna is delicious. Burger Boy: The Bacon Cheeseburger. Fargo's: Chicken Fried Steak. Pippo's: The Monte Cristo. Dolores Brewery: The Philly Steak. Denny's: The Club. I could go on and on. As often as I eat at those places, my choices never waver. Strangely, those menu choices were the first thing that I tried, I figure: Why Take a Chance and Not Like Something??</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a favorite coffee haunt where, in the mornings after my swim, I like to stop in and get coffee. Mondays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays I have the same thing. A medium dark roast cup of hot coffee. I am comforted in knowing what to expect, consistent caffeinated goodness in a paper cup. Pure Joy!</div><div><br /></div><div>Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays . . . my predictable, stagnant routine is completely turned inside out.</div><div><br /></div><div>A certain barista who we'll call - for the sake of my story - Madge</div><div><br /></div><div>Madge is quite an interesting person. Charming, witty, quick with a smile, great taste in fashion and, among other things . . . honest. Very honest. Not afraid to say things like, "You look tired today" or "Ew . . . you're wearing a tie" or "You look like a manager today" . . . whatever that means? I have always left the coffee shop in much better shape than when I came in, due in no small part to my friend, Madge.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is nice to have someone willing to be honest, that's for sure. </div><div><br /></div><div>Madge has decided that I need my coffee drinking horizons expanded, I think she became weary of my getting the same thing day after day. One day she did something completely crazy . . . she made me a Latte'. I was pretty freaked out, it didn't look or smell or act like my ol' standby. It was different, different texture, different smell and different taste. I tried to work up a smile as I sipped it KNOWING I was going to hate it and that I had forfeited the perfect pleasure of dark roast coffee and instead opted for a trip to HippieGrossCoffeeVille. It felt SO, SO wrong.</div><div><br /></div><div>As much as I tried to hate it, I couldn't. It was actually . . . dare I say it . . . very good. I liked pretty much everything about it. I don't recall what the first trip into the unknown was called, but it opened me up for trying new coffee. Thanks to Madge.</div><div><br /></div><div>Madge has since made me a great many varieties of Lattes, So many flavor choices, I don't think a person would ever have to drink the same latte twice, as terrifying as that sounds to a hater of change like me.</div><div><br /></div><div>However . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>Something went <i>terribly</i> wrong this morning, I may not recover for quite some time. Nothing went as planned. The word "disaster" doesn't fully describe what transpired: I arrived at the coffee shop and made my way to the counter to be greeted by Madge. She said, "Have I got a surprise for you today, Steve".</div><div><br /></div><div>She had obviously put a lot of thought into this morning's selection.</div><div><br /></div><div>She continued, "First tell me; are you allergic to anything?"</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Knowing what I know now my answer would have been 180 degrees different.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "Yes, I have a peanut allergy".</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't recall the exact phraseology that followed, but it went a lot like this:</div><div><br /></div><div>"YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME?? I had this great idea and worked ALL morning on getting it JUST right and now you tell me you have a peanut allergy?? That really makes me angry Steve. I'm a little upset."</div><div><br /></div><div>Dang . . . I knew there was trouble brewing.</div><div><br /></div><div>She huffed around a minute and then said, "You're not allergic to bananas; ARE YOU??"</div><div><br /></div><div>I said, "Um . . . no"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Good, let me make you something else" she said through her slightly gritted teeth.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well let me tell you . . . she made something so wrong, so vile, so ghetto . . . it almost triggered my gag reflex. It was coffee, with caramel and a mashed up banana in it. I took the first sip - complete with large floating bits of banana that had to be chewed thoroughly before being swallowed - and turned away, hoping that Madge wouldn't be able to see the look of horror on my face as I tried to swallow my banana coffee. It went down kicking and screaming. I took another sip to be polite with the same result. I then looked inside the cup and what looked like a great big booger was clinging to the cup near the top. I'm sure it was a piece of the road killed banana trying to crawl its way out of the yellowish ointment back to safety.</div><div><br /></div><div>I put the cup down and dejectedly said, "Sorry, Madge. I can't drink this".</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt like one of the sad people on that TV show "Fear Factor" who had been sent home, unable to force themselves to swallow some crazy bug that they'd been challenged with.</div><div><br /></div><div>Madge and I looked at one another briefly . . . then we shared a big belly laugh about the whole thing. She made me something else and it was delicious. I was laughing all the way to thinking about what had happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm very thankful for Madge. She always gets my day started with a smile. I wonder what next week will have in store for me.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-31179785671424236532010-02-13T19:27:00.003-07:002010-02-13T20:31:21.553-07:00Bad Choices . . . I've made a few<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3dg-sMpNAI/AAAAAAAAGnA/DTkdmiWVG_E/s1600-h/n672562012_1470122_7231.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3dg-sMpNAI/AAAAAAAAGnA/DTkdmiWVG_E/s320/n672562012_1470122_7231.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437921705205511170" /></a>I thoroughly enjoy live music and am so crazy fortunate that, not only do I get to watch and listen to it, I get to make it once in a while too.<div><br /></div><div>Who would have ever thought that an aging sheepherder would get to masquerade as a Rock Star?? I LOVE America!</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a few rock & roll regrets however.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the worst choices I've ever made happened in Vegas round about 1975. I was with my parents and they saddled me with the burden of a horrific no-win choice one evening. There were two performers that I really loved, both of whom captivated my young soul albeit in wholly different ways. One song in particular fascinated me, it boomed forth from the 8 track in the pickup and quite simply towered over any other song I'd heard up to that point. It was Tennessee Ernie Ford's rendition of, "16 Tons". I loved that song. I loved the deep baritone voice, the bassoon or whatever it was that lead into the melody, the finger snapping and lastly, the incredible story it told. Tennessee sang some other songs that I liked but 16 Tons gave me goosebumps. Especially the ending.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other choice on the ballot that night was a man from Tupelo Mississippi, a man who rose up through the ranks of early day rockers and was Christened with the title, "The King of Rock & Roll". That's right . . . none other than Elvis Presley. He was playing a little extended gig at the Las Vegas Hilton. Now of course, I knew every Elvis song by heart, loved his stage presence, envied his ability to cast a spell over women of all ages and was captivated by his totally over-the-top flamboyance. Those suits were way too cool.</div><div><br /></div><div>There I am. My parents watching me, waiting to see who I'd pick. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd make the most logical choice, carefully weigh the information and come to a decision with reasoned clarity. A decision that would stand correct many years down the road. A decision that would stand the test of time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I figured that Tennessee Ernie was getting up there in years, he was looking pretty old, common sense seemed to dictate that I would have very few chances to catch him "live". If you know what I mean. Elvis - The King - was in his prime and would be around many, many years. I'd have countless chances to see him, maybe even take MY children to see him. So I chose . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>Tennessee Rocked. He burned the house down. The hair stood up on the back of my neck when he sang 16 Tons. I left that show smiling ear to ear. To this day I think that show still ranks in my top ten of all time. I wasn't disappointed . . . until. I heard the dreadful news. Elvis was dead. I was playing basketball at my friend Kent's house when it was broadcast over the radio. I ran home, laid down on my bed . . . and cried.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would have liked to have seen The King.</div><div><br /></div><div>My second questionable choice came a few years later.</div><div><br /></div><div>My hormones had kicked in and my judgement wasn't as crystal clear as it had been as a younger teen. See . . . there was this girl. As a young man, many of us have weighed decisions in the balance using the special "I-Wonder-How-Far-I-Will-Get-If-I-Make-Such-And-Such-A-Choice?" rubric. Come on men, you know you've done it. Don't be embarrassed, just admit it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought I'd make the most logical choice, carefully weigh the information and come to a decision with reasoned clarity. A decision that would stand correct many years down the road. A decision that would stand the test of time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was standing on the precipice of Saturday night, paycheck in hand, wondering where the best place to take my date might be. (Using my rubric) There was a stadium type show that I was sure would endear me to this young lady, this band was HUGELY popular back in the day, probably the hottest ticket of the year. They weren't a favorite of mine, but that was secondary at the time. She'd be enraptured by the music and be left as easy prey, putty in my hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we went to see a couple of sisters, Ann and Nancy Wilson, better known as "Heart". They - as I expected - put up a predictable, lack-luster performance which left me wondering if I should ask for the admission price back. They were OK, I guess, in an early 80's kind of way. The girl and I didn't hit it off and I ended up taking her home, shaking her hand and thanking her for a lovely evening. All in all a total bust. Bad choice, really bad choice.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I figured I'd have a thousand chances to hear the up and coming rock star in the years ahead. His light was just beginning to burn bright and I'd catch him when it was white hot. I mean The Utah State Fair wasn't the best acoustic venue, although the 5 dollar admission fee was attractive, it didn't seem that he would be the man to wow my date into submission. After all he was just getting started. And he wasn't focusing his musical energy into the most popular of genres at the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder how in the world something so dreadful could happen to one person not once but TWICE?</div><div><br /></div><div>My other choice that night was none other than Stevie Ray Vaughn. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder if my life would have been different had I chose to go see Stevie that night or Elvis in Vegas?</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess I'll never know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kids . . . don't make musical choices you'll live to regret. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-9901948149653728752010-02-11T19:58:00.002-07:002010-02-11T20:38:00.155-07:00What were we thinking?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3TE17IZ7bI/AAAAAAAAGmc/fIJ_Ynbcbe8/s1600-h/stevekev.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3TE17IZ7bI/AAAAAAAAGmc/fIJ_Ynbcbe8/s320/stevekev.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437187080828087730" /></a>Meet Kevin. Kevin - like me - is old. But as the sign says . . . we are men. <div><br /></div><div>Kevin has been my swim coach for about 3 years now, he has the patience of Job. Without Kevin I'd be a clueless, fitness swimmer, thrashing back and forth across the pool like a badly choreographed fall down a flight of stairs. With Kevin's help, I'm slowly starting to resemble a swimmer.</div><div><br /></div><div>I swam competitively as a kid until I got totally burned out. I swam a bit when I was 20 so, to get in shape for some triathlons. Then I took 25 years off to do some other stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kevin swam all the way through high school and college. He quit swimming and started coaching. But hadn't swam a workout since 1983. He started getting back in shape a couple months ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kevin and I are doing something pretty silly . . . we're entering a swim meet. In a pool. With other swimmers. LOTS of other swimmers. And people watching. I have raced a few open water events over the last few years where you run into a lake like a crazed lunatic and swim as fast as you can around a course dotted with buoys, surrounded by hundreds of other swimmers all vying for the same space in the water. But no "official" pool races.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty nervous, and pretty excited as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kevin isn't nervous. He's way too cool for that nonsense. </div><div><br /></div><div>The meet is in Loveland next week. It's the first of a few I have planned IF I manage not to make a complete @$$ of myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wish us luck, we're gonna need it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-35848884137363113852010-02-10T21:13:00.004-07:002010-02-10T21:48:16.853-07:00From Folgers to Macchiato: One brave man's journey.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3OFWTaInOI/AAAAAAAAGkY/V9uWgtXVMlE/s1600-h/coffee+002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3OFWTaInOI/AAAAAAAAGkY/V9uWgtXVMlE/s320/coffee+002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436835793379826914" /></a><br />I had my first cup of coffee in Elko Nevada at a casino called, "The Stockmans". It was late at night, I was with my big brother Mel and my dad. We were working at a cattle ranch, building a riding arena. It was pretty exciting being away from home with my two heroes in a casino, WAY past my bed time. We came into town one night to eat dinner.<div><br /></div><div>We were sitting at a table in the cafe looking at the menu, getting ready to order. The waitress came over and asked the usual ice-breaker question, "Can I get you folks something to drink?" My dad said, "I'll have coffee". It was my brother's turn, he asked for Dr. Pepper. I KNEW that there was zero chance that I'd ever be allowed to order pop that late at night, so I made a crazy request. When the waitress waited for my answer, I bravely said - in the deepest 8 year old voice I could muster - "I'd like a cup of coffee, please." The waitress immediately smiled and looked at my dad, to my utter surprise, he nodded a firm, "YES" in her direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>She brought my coffee and I put my hands on the thick ceramic mug. I looked as steam rose off of the deep brown liquid, I remember trying to take a sip and burning my lip. I recall how terrible it tasted too. But I was determined to be like my dad and learn to drink black coffee. It was the manly thing to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>At that moment I became a lover of coffee, especially black coffee. I have enjoyed coffee every day of my life ever since.</div><div><br /></div><div>I recall being at band camp in a place called "Clear Creek" while attending Jr. High School. I woke up the first morning there and to my horror . . . NO COFFEE. I was well into my teens and waking up without coffee was just not a happening thing. I decided to hoof it to the road and hitch hike a few miles down the road to a place called, "Goose's" where I knew I could score some nice hot coffee. I never quite understood why I got in so much trouble from the band teachers. It was their negligence that drove my behavior, I felt that their lack of preparation had ultimately "sealed my fate". Who in their right mind would dream of "camp" sans "coffee"?? Obviously not someone that could possibly merit any respect from little ol' moi.</div><div><br /></div><div>I recall my first trip to an espresso bar. I was in Park City, Utah. I was working as a superintendent for a construction company remodeling a fire damaged Main Street building. A couple doors down was a coffee shop. I went to get a cup of joe one morning and waited in a line of people slowly making their way to place their orders. I looked at the menu and NOWHERE did it say the word I was looking for . . . "coffee" . . . It mentioned a whole bunch of offerings that I'd NEVER heard of like, Latte and Macchiato and Cappucino and Americano. What in the world were those things?? I felt like leaving rather than exposing my raw ignorance to the barista and everyone else in earshot but decided against it. I neared the counter and was asked the dreaded question, "What can I get for you?" I had NO earthly idea what to order. I leaned in close to the man and said in a whisper, "Give me a cup of the closest thing you have to Folgers, please". He smiled and handed me my first, "Americano". Good stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>I like every kind of coffee: instant coffee, sheepherder coffee, drip coffee, percolated coffee, ice coffee and any other kind of coffee. I'm really not a snob at all when it comes to coffee, I'll drink anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lately I have gained new respect for the barista, the coffee gurus who bring their ingenious creations to the vast hoards of the unappreciative. There really is NO limit to the number of taste and flavor sensations the creative coffee maven can put in play. It's a great thing to be able to enjoy coffee in ever expanding catalogs of selections:</div><div><br /></div><div>The Cheeto</div><div>The Bumblebee</div><div>TNT</div><div>Spicy Night in Mexico</div><div>The Stalker</div><div>Willie Wonka</div><div>The Racist</div><div><br /></div><div>One can only wonder what morning will bring.</div><div><br /></div><div>VIVA COFFEE ! ! ! </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-79004238684186217572010-02-09T12:42:00.011-07:002010-02-09T15:45:26.727-07:00I LOVE coffee . . . but there's no place to park.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3HlWPYB5rI/AAAAAAAAGkQ/FkCvscMzc4E/s1600-h/snow.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3HlWPYB5rI/AAAAAAAAGkQ/FkCvscMzc4E/s320/snow.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436378395460101810" /></a><br />I love coffee. <div><br /></div><div>I frequent this coffee place in the mornings and afternoons. It's pretty great. Good coffee, interesting people, always something crazy going on.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are SO many things to like about it. It's a used book store - used book stores are on the top of my "fave store" lists - they make amazing coffee, Paninis, show free movies, have art exhibits, acoustic open mic nights and on occasion, puppet shows. I'm only scratching the surface, they do many great things. I like the creativity of the people who work there. The owner is pretty cool as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I could change anything about the place it would be simple: more parking.</div><div><br /></div><div>They have a rather small parking lot that is quite often full, there is parking along the street as well but it is kind of limited. Of course the coffee and atmosphere is well worth parking a little far away and hoofing it. If I'm in a hurry sometimes I try to steal an illegal space to save some walking. I know I shouldn't but I can't help myself, I was built for SIN, baby. Once in a while I'll park in the lot next door . . . or park behind someone in the lot or - like today - park behind the building next door.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today was one of those days.</div><div><br /></div><div>I park . . . hurry in to get a refill on my coffee, have a couple of laughs with the barista and scram back to my truck. As I'm walking toward my truck with my wonderful coffee, I notice that there is what looks like an aging Hell's Angel shoveling snow into the bed of my truck. He is wearing a leather vest over a white T-Shirt, his long hair is bouncing with each heave of the scoop. He looks a lot like Willie Nelson, or Edgar Winter. Both of whom I adore, that's NOT meant as an insult, it's just a descriptor. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty sure that he's making a statement about me parking in his lot, only he has chosen the power of the shovel over the power of words. I stand back watching him pick up the heavy wet snow and ultimately launch it into the bed of the tall truck, sweat and anger are the by-products of his furious labor. He stops to wipe his brow and take a couple of deep breaths, leaning on the shovel like a kick stand.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm kind of wondering what I should do, I sip my coffee mulling over my options as the snow pile continues to grow. I certainly don't want conflict, after all, I did park where I shouldn't have. I don't want to offer him a soapbox by asking a question like, "Hey, what's up with the snow, Willie?" Instead I opt for door number 3.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walk over to my truck with a big smile, unlock the door, tell the man as cheerfully as I can, "Thank You", start my truck and drive away, leaving him leaning on the shovel, sweating and wondering, "What just happened?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Too Funny.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhoo . . . I have a pickup load of snow I'd be willing to let go real cheap. Let me know.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-44066135589829336592010-02-08T17:59:00.002-07:002010-02-08T18:22:35.483-07:00Baby, it's COLD outside.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3C0J0z1ECI/AAAAAAAAGkA/rFfO-otdw_8/s1600-h/snow+shoeing+011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3C0J0z1ECI/AAAAAAAAGkA/rFfO-otdw_8/s320/snow+shoeing+011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436042831124041762" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3Cz_afmWJI/AAAAAAAAGj4/_VsPDqV0x9Q/s1600-h/snow+shoeing+009.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S3Cz_afmWJI/AAAAAAAAGj4/_VsPDqV0x9Q/s320/snow+shoeing+009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436042652261177490" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm REALLY trying hard to make friends with winter. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I may have been meant to live near the ocean. I love to swim, feel the warm sun on my exposed skin and hunt for shade if it gets too warm. I lived on Newport beach for 6 months or so and really enjoyed it. I sure didn't enjoy the crowds and insanity that seemed to come along with it. But, on Newport Beach, I never once had to scrape sun off of my car windshield or shovel sun off of my sidewalk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Be that as it may, here I am. Smack Dab in the middle of cold country, in the dead of winter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been trying to land on an activity that puts me outside in the snow with a smile on my face. That's no small feat, I dislike skiing, snowmobiling and ice climbing. They all take too much gear and are more than I want to invest in. I was thinking about the gentle art of snowshoeing. I spoke to my friend Jimbo and asked if he had some shoes that I could buy, he said, "Steve, I have just the thing. I bought some snowshoes about ten years ago, used them once, and will NEVER go again. It was torture". </div><div><br /></div><div>So . . . there you have it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had the snowshoes and actually looked at them with intention last year but didn't have the gumption to try them. So I stored them away safely where they wouldn't hurt anyone. </div><div><br /></div><div>This year I have actually been snowshoeing a few times and let me tell you . . . it's not much fun at all. It's like taking a very strenuous trudge through ridiculously deep snow in freezing cold temperatures for no good reason at all. AND, even with the snowshoes on I still sink nearly up to my knees in the snow.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's no real payoff in snowshoeing, it's just a long walk in a circle in adverse conditions.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I'm missing something?</div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-69516803613914701582010-02-06T19:22:00.003-07:002010-02-06T19:56:12.182-07:00My shoes are ruined<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S24rsSnjVhI/AAAAAAAAGjw/CkaCZ7DY4iw/s1600-h/75467602-250x250-0-0_Circa%2BJoan%2BDavid%2BCirca%2BLopez%2B50%2BSkate%2BShoes.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/S24rsSnjVhI/AAAAAAAAGjw/CkaCZ7DY4iw/s320/75467602-250x250-0-0_Circa%2BJoan%2BDavid%2BCirca%2BLopez%2B50%2BSkate%2BShoes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435329840194737682" /></a><br />I'm just gonna say it: I love shoes.<div><br /></div><div>I have quite a few pairs of them, my interests lie mostly in sneakers. I like bright colors and unusual designs. I have had many of my shoes for years.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have several pairs that are very dear to me, if I have a big meeting or an important day I always pick out shoes that make me feel good about myself. I recently had a couple of out-of-town business meetings that I had to attend and a friend that I was meeting for lunch. I - of course - wanted to look and feel my best, I took my current favorite shoe with me to assure everything went my way. They are made by Circa, they are light blue with black skulls all over them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I arrived at the hotel in Utah, I was wearing my nice blue Circas. It was pretty late, but after driving six hours and drinking 6 cups of coffee, I wasn't feeling like hitting the hay quite yet. I opened the window of my room and looked out, in the distance I saw a convenience store marquee. I thought I'd walk over and get some fresh air and some Cheetos. </div><div><br /></div><div>The walk was longer than I had first anticipated, it was probably close to a mile, I hadn't brought my jacket and was very much regretting it. It was pretty chilly, probably high 20's. I opened my Cheetos and looked out the store window at my Hotel, I decided to try a shortcut back to the room. Instead of following the road that wandered in a big "U" shape around a field, I took straight off cross country. I walked a few hundred yards when I came to a little marshy looking section, I paused and considered turning back and going to the road, I was kind of cold so I decided to slog through it. It was cold enough that I thought it would be frozen.</div><div><br /></div><div>Three steps into the marsh I found myself knee-deep in black swamp mud. Cold, tired, angry and wet I decided to keep going. When I got back to the room I looked down at my feet and they were solid black mud. They also smelled like stagnant, fish water. I knew what I had to do, they had to go. As I bagged them in plastic and threw them in the trash I felt a great sadness, the shoes that had been on my feet through many happy moments were being discarded in a far away trash can like common garbage. Shoes that had been on stage with me, at work, on vacation . . . now gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was totally my fault, had I not been so ill-prepared for my journey they would have remained clean and in my collection. Those shoes paid the ultimate price for my lack of concern.</div><div><br /></div><div>May they rest in peace.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-57825510335367441122009-03-29T08:30:00.003-06:002009-03-29T09:34:13.647-06:00Empty Nest, Broken Heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/Sc-JbET-o1I/AAAAAAAAEPU/wNg7NhCA0PI/s1600-h/jake+0032.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:left;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/Sc-JbET-o1I/AAAAAAAAEPU/wNg7NhCA0PI/s320/jake+0032.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318620783054857042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/Sc-JEcQhgdI/AAAAAAAAEPM/LInfX5daROU/s1600-h/jake+0031.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/Sc-JEcQhgdI/AAAAAAAAEPM/LInfX5daROU/s320/jake+0031.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318620394345824722" /></a>So, here's a couple pics of Hurricane Jake sporting his new shirt while we're waiting around to take the stage at the Ag-Expo. <div><br /></div><div>Something weird is happening right now, I'm writing this blog entry from Jake's room. That in itself doesn't seem all that strange, the weird thing is; Jake's not here. Sadly for his mother and I, Hurricane Jake took his act on the road, Hurricane Jake left the nest, Hurricane Jake stepped out of the cozy, safe confines of mom and dad's house into the cold harsh world, taking his Elvis posters, guitars, furniture and amplifiers along with a huge piece of my heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first three days were pretty rough on Hurricane's parents, his mom laid around the house eating, dad laid around the house thumbing through photo albums crying. I vividly recall bringing the little guy home from the hospital, sending him off to his first day of Kindergarten, watching his first football game, his first guitar, his first girlfriend, his first car and a thousand other memories. Suddenly I find myself all alone in a room that used to be filled with joy, wondering where the time went. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm pretty sure I'll be able to process this whole thing as time goes by. I know he did the right thing, it was time for him to move on, but right now it hurts pretty bad.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-34575110299231943652009-01-30T16:47:00.005-07:002009-01-30T17:33:39.996-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SYOb1tBKoUI/AAAAAAAADlk/dt4120GbiPU/s1600-h/AAGV001599.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SYOb1tBKoUI/AAAAAAAADlk/dt4120GbiPU/s320/AAGV001599.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297248933637693762" /></a><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:arial;font-size:13px;">So, I had this dream last night. It was a little look into my existence as if it were a walk through a tunnel, always downhill and always curved so I can't see where I'm going or where I've been. The stream of people is steady and each person on the journey is carrying a picture of themselves, the picture captures them at a younger age in what they consider their prime. Take a walk with me.<div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<wbr>~~~~<br /><div><br /></div><div>As I walk, I can't help but notice that the people in front of me are giving me a clue into my future, I see how they age and their footsteps begin to slow down, their once snappy cadence seems to have lost its vigor, like a slowly unwinding spring losing its tension. Strangely though, they always remain ahead of me on the slow trudge downward. Each carries a picture of themselves from a point along the road. They chatter with excitement as they narrate the little pieces of still-life to anyone willing to listen. As the scene pours over me, I can't help but notice how time and the journey has painted them nearly unrecognizable from the persons captured in the image. Gray hair, wrinkles and limps of various kinds serve to disguise them and hide what was. I can't help but think that those in line are slowly unraveling like a large ball of twine and soon their end will be found.</div><div><br /></div><div>Occasionally a marcher sits by the wayside staring into the picture of their youth silently longing to have someone stop and share their moment in time. Those passing dare not make eye contact or slow down fearing that somehow the disease of aging will infect them and rob them of their precious time. As I walked the road I did something that seemed very wrong, as I passed one of the men seated by the wayside I shared an indiscretion - our eyes met - I winced, the contact was almost painful I trained my gaze back to the floor in front of me, however my moment of weakness allowed the distraught man the launching pad he needed. He began to sing a song, directly into my ears, and my ears alone, his dirge was slow and precise uttered with a bit of tremolo in his ancient voice:</div><div><br /></div><div>Brother - take a look, look into my soul.</div><div>Tell me what you see, tell me what lies down below.</div><div>Is it the man I am or is it the boy I used to be?</div><div>Am I strong?</div><div>Am I weak?</div><div>Will you reach for me and help me find relief?</div><div>I'm all alone.</div><div>Trapped inside a silent world.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>His words seared my conscience like a hot iron on flesh, the haunting melody drove my feet into silence as if they became too heavy to move. I looked back at the man, his eyes now appeared as windows and as mirrors. A window deep into the man and a mirror in which I could see my future, the effect of time on a body, his wrinkles and gray hair would soon be my own. Yet there was also something compelling in his appearance after a moment of searching I discoveed something, it wasn't in how he looked, he almost appeared repulsive, it was in fact that we'd shared a moment of real humanity, our hearts had touched as his song had washed over my hesitant ears.</div><div><br /></div><div>He beckoned me to come sit with him, moving over to one end of an oak bench that gave the appearance of a butcher's block. I could do no other, I had to sit down. I studied his appearance and noticed that we had on the same clothing, his was faded and worn from the journey much more so than mine. On his chest was a name tag that read: ANCIENT</div><div><br /></div><div>I stared into Ancient waiting for him to tell me the story captured in the photograph he held, that seemed to be the norm for such an encounter, I'd seen quite a few of them on my journey. After several hours of silence, I realized that this wasn't an ordinary meeting. I felt drawn to ask the man some questions, he appeared to be full of wisdom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: Tell me sir; where does this road go?</div><div><br /></div><div>Without hesitation the man answered.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ancient: This road takes us to death and to eternity. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Trout: How far is it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ancient: The same distance for everyone, it goes from start to finish.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Trout: How can that be? Some leave the tunnel early, others travel far.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ancient: Traveling into eternity one never goes "far", one only goes.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Trout: You said the road leads to death. Why must we go there first, why doesn't this road lead to eternity?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ancient: We must first be changed, we cannot go like this.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Trout: Why?</div><div><br /></div><div>Ancient: Eternity only allows perfection to roam her hallowed halls. To live imperfect in eternity's house would be the very definition of Hell. Being exposed for what you are under the white light of forever's scrutiny would burn you, yet eternity would dictate that you must not be consumed.</div><div><br /></div><div>His word picture was chilling, making me wish I had my coat. I curled up on the bench for a nap hoping to digest all that had happened and perhaps even forget the future that had been revealed. I closed my eyes but the sleep I found was uneasy, even tiring in a way. I woke up to find myself alone on the bench, my slumber was such that I was glad to be awake. I wondered where Ancient had gone, I looked at the spot on the bench where I'd last seen him. Instead of finding him, I saw a note. I wondered briefly whether or not I should read the note or just get up and leave, continuing my journey downward, content in what was left of my ignorance. I knew I could not, I must know what the note said. I grabbed the note, I had to see what was inside. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I read the note each word disappeared as if it had been ingested and consumed, it read:</div><div><br /></div><div>Brother:</div><div><br /></div><div>There were two more questions you wanted to ask me, I couldn't wait for you to awaken to give the answers in person, the journey called my name. I'll finish our conversation here. You wanted to know why the old are never overtaken on the journey by the young even though the young walk faster. As a boy I wondered the same thing, as Ancient it seems all too obvious. Time speeds up for the old, a summer has become like an afternoon, a year has become like a young man's week. A boy's day spent trapped inside the house on a rainy day seems to play out for eons, for the old man it's but the blink of an eye. My advice to you is enjoy every raindrop, breathe in and savor each and every moment, this life is far too fleeting and evanescent to rush down the tunnel.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>As for your other question, Brother, I've written the answer on the back of this note - the moment you're going to die - it's yours to see or to ignore, few are offered this knowledge for good reason, it hastens the journey.</div><div><br /></div><div>Farewell, Brother. Drink in the journey to its fullest.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the last word disappeared into my eyes, I was left staring at a blank page. I was wishing that I'd never made eye contact with Ancient, there was no way I could un-see or un-hear any of the things I'd learned. They were part of me now. I couldn't help but hate myself a little bit for what was about to happen, I knew that I could never leave the back of the note unread, I didn't have that kind of power. Given such a choice I had to look into my future.</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned over the note and watched the numbers disappear into my soul sealing my fate. </div><div><br /></div><div>In one hand was my photo, in the other, Ancient's note, in between them a man facing the present. Longing for the past, fated to die, I did the only thing I could . . . I stretched out on the bench and wept. </div><div><br /></div><div>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<wbr>~~~~~~~</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder about the signifigance of such things, dreams and daydreams. I have quite a few interesting dreams, so many that I have a pad and pencil next to the bed where I can write them down before they're forgotten in my morning coffee. As I reflect on them I notice scraps of conversations I've had with people and images I've seen that have left an impression on me. Or maybe I'm insane. Either way I'm fine with it.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-40053292469447857652009-01-25T16:25:00.007-07:002009-01-25T18:03:13.312-07:00RIP Uncle Deke 1943 - 2009<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SXz4TN9bbqI/AAAAAAAADjc/uVbE6UjGTTU/s1600-h/fam111.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SXz4TN9bbqI/AAAAAAAADjc/uVbE6UjGTTU/s320/fam111.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295380270929374882" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Meet my Uncle Deke, he's seated on the wall on the left hand side of the above picture. Those other two people are my mom and dad. My mom decided to stay home when it was time to go to Deke's funeral but she gave us a note and told us to give it to Deke if it was possible. What a wild man he was, and what an impact he had on my life. He was born in Carbon County Utah in 1943, and there he died. He was an extraordinary person, he was quick witted, tall and handsome, had a voice that commanded attention and the most wonderful smile I've ever seen. His smile was contagious, he smiled and it's as if a warm summer breeze blew over you. I remember many things about Deke, many great stories that are told frequently among my family wherever we gather, but not surprisingly I learned something new about Uncle Deke at his funeral. First, let me hit some of the stories I remember: <br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: Uncle Deke holds an unbreakable record in Carbon County Utah, most arrests. Nearly 200.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: Uncle Deke believed that the firewood cutters were going to cut down all the trees on his favorite mountain, he took it upon himself to block the road and have an armed standoff with the sheriff. The sheriff saw through his binoculars that Deke had a bottle of Jack Daniel's with him. The sheriff waited until Deke passed out, then went and got him.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: Uncle Deke rolled me my first ever cigarette, I was 10. We were getting ready to pour some concrete sidewalk and Deke decided it was break time. He said, "Let's take five" Deke then proceeded to roll a cigarette, to my surprise he handed it to me and said, "I'd feel bad having a cigarette without you, here you go, I'm not going to light it cause I know you're ma would be mad." I felt like a real man sharing that moment with Uncle Deke.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: As I watched in horror, Uncle Deke ran over my pet duck, (DuckyDaddle) I ran out into the road and knelt down next to Ducky Daddle sobbing, Uncle Deke knelt down next to me sobbing, but it was a miracle, Ducky Daddle was only stunned, he got up and walked away. He was no worse for wear, he only lost a couple tail feathers.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: I was mad at my dad one day and went to vent my frustration to Uncle Deke. Uncle Deke listened for about 10 seconds and said, "Your dad is the finest man I've ever known, you say one more bad thing about him and I'm going to kick your ass, now go home, tell him you're sorry and do whatever he tells you".<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: While deer hunting, the road we were camped on became nearly impassable due to mud. Deke, myself, my dad and my brother were in the cab of my dad's truck, it's pitch dark outside. Dad decided it was time to throw on the tire chains, Deke jumped out and tried to put them on, but due to Deke's blood alcohol content, he was only able to lay down, roll around and get muddy from head to toe - so much so - that my dad wouldn't let him in the cab, dad told Deke to ride in the back. Dad put the chains on and blasted off down the road to camp probably a couple miles, he really had to "go-for-it" to make it through some of the mudholes. We get to camp - no Deke - dad had hit a bump so hard that Deke had flown out of the bed of the truck into the road. My brother and I hadn't noticed, we were scared that dad was driving like a maniac because A) he didn't want to get stuck B) he was really pissed at Deke for being drunk and muddy.<br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />We hopped out of the truck and could faintly hear Deke's cries, "Yo, Gene, I fell out of the truck . . . wait for me, I fell out of the truck"<br /><br />Dad said, "#&$^, you boys wait here while I go get your Uncle Deke".</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: My dad and Uncle Deke were working on a high rise project in SLC, one morning they got to work and found a man getting ready to jump off the building and kill himself. Uncle Deke talked him out of it. The man had thrown a chair through a picture window on the 12th floor and was standing on the ledge getting ready to launch himself onto the street below. My dad and Deke spotted him and went inside the room to try to talk to him. The jumper talked for a minute or two with both of them then told my dad to, "get the hell out of there". Thirty minutes later Deke walked out of the room with his arm over the shoulder of the jumper.<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: Uncle Deke was staying with us one hot summer night, the neighbors were having a HORRIBLE fight next door, I mean a plate throwing, sailor language, hair pulling knock down drag out fight. The woman was mad at her husband because he'd smoked all the cigarettes and refused to go get more. It went on for quite a while, finally Uncle Deke got up, put his pants on ran outside and threw a pack of cigarettes through the neighbor's window and said, "Shut the $&*# up we're trying to get some %^&ing sleep over here, and watch your language there's some little kids here".<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">True Story: One payday when my dad and Deke were working together they decided to go to the bar to cash their paychecks instead of coming right home. (Deke was living with us at the time) They stayed at the bar and played a few games of pool and didn't get home until about 8 o'clock. Mom was FURIOUS. When they finally got home, dad came into the house, took off his boots, put down his lunchbox and asked, "So, what's for dinner?" My mom whirled around with daggers in her eyes and said, "Dinner was at 5". I think those were the last words spoken in the house that night. Mom had conveyed plenty of meaning using that short sentence. Dad and Deke went to bed hungry. The next morning nothing had thawed out, tension was still at critical mass. We were having breakfast at the table when Deke came into the kitchen. He sat down with his coffee and was very quiet. He waited until my mom came to the table to give him his breakfast, then Deke flashed my mother his trademark smile, and with his wonderful voice asked, "So, Eva, what time's dinner tonight?" We all looked in horror at my mother, we just knew her head was going to explode and it wasn't going to be pretty. She looked at Deke for about ten seconds - in complete silence - then she couldn't take it any longer, she began to laugh, then we ALL had a good laugh. What great timing Deke had.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the burial, Deke was laid to rest next to his wife Sharon who died last Spring. His funeral announcement said that Deke had died of a broken heart. I really thought that was just something nice his brother had added to the program, Deke didn't strike me as the hopeless romantic. When we were at the cemetary I found the headstone that had been moved so Deke's grave could be dug next to Sharon's. It had the most wonderful tribute to not only Sharon, but a look inside my Uncle Deke's heart as well: </span></div><div><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SXz_YbKI5NI/AAAAAAAADjs/H3k_GpvBy7E/s1600-h/IMG_0652.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SXz_YbKI5NI/AAAAAAAADjs/H3k_GpvBy7E/s400/IMG_0652.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295388056953087186" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It reads:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"A death has occured and everything is changed by this event. We are painfully aware that life can never be the same again. But there is another way to look upon this truth. If life went on the same without the presence of the one who has died, we could conclude that the life remembered filled no space - meant nothing. Life can be the same after a trinket has been lost, but never after the loss of a treasure. Deke."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When I was saying goodbye to Deke at the viewing I remembered the note I'd been given by my mother. I held it in my hand and I couldn't help but take a peek at it before I put it with Deke. I unfolded it and in my mother's handwriting it said, "Deke . . . dinner's at 5"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Thanks for everything, Uncle Deke. You may be gone but you certainly aren't forgotten.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-88533107504790625952009-01-09T19:53:00.006-07:002009-01-09T20:36:53.151-07:00The "Chuck Norris" of Swimming<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SWgOS-ksr6I/AAAAAAAADWE/1xOiWfWzrs8/s1600-h/IMG_0553.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SWgOS-ksr6I/AAAAAAAADWE/1xOiWfWzrs8/s320/IMG_0553.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289493481544003490" /></a><br />Something very cool happened to me tonight, my young friends at the pool gave me a new nickname and a new shirt.<div><br /></div><div>The Chuck Norris of Swimming</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm all kinds of proud.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>My swimming career began when I was 6, my mom took me to the pool for some lessons, I had a fascination for water and she was worried about me drowning. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The pool we went to had a swim team, I really wanted to be on the team, I begged my mom to let me try out, I overheard her speaking with the coach one day, she asked what it would take to get me on the team, the coach told my mom that I really wasn't cut out for swimming, he suggested that I try something else. Well, a couple of years later I'm pretty sure I'd proved the coach wrong.</div><div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SWgQvywXkgI/AAAAAAAADWU/csomxj-b2-I/s320/fam51.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 310px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289496175611187714" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I swam from the age of 6 up to to the age of 12. Swimming practice two hours a day 5 days a week year round tends to burn a little guy out, even on something he loves.</div><div><br /></div><div>I picked up swimming again when I was about 18, I swam for a few months to get myself in shape for a triathlon. After the race, I stopped.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two years ago I decided to pick it up again, I'm really enjoying my time at the pool, it's been a lot of hard work, but it's been paying off as well. Not only is it good exercise, but swimming on a team adds an element of fellowship that was lacking in my exercise life. It's hard to stay motivated </div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SWgUgwCK7GI/AAAAAAAADWc/TtLOg-0FqyY/s320/tri.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 109px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289500315229023330" /><div>when you're all by yourself. That isn't a problem when there are others around with similar goals. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I swam my first race since making my comeback a few months ago, it was an open water race, the swimming leg of a triathlon relay. The course was about 900 yards long, there were 364 swimmers ranging in age from 14 to 75. My time was fourth best overall. with less than three seconds seperating 2nd, 3rd and 4th. The overall winner was only twenty seconds faster than me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not bad for an aging grandfather with asthma and a bad heart, eh?</div><div><br /></div><div>"Chuck Norris" can hardly wait for his next race.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-60551436872019654332008-12-25T17:44:00.005-07:002008-12-25T18:58:08.464-07:00The Changing of the Guard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SVQwoPX3CGI/AAAAAAAADLQ/8rkQfRkHbSQ/s1600-h/IMG_0129.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SVQwoPX3CGI/AAAAAAAADLQ/8rkQfRkHbSQ/s320/IMG_0129.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283901730691942498" /></a><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Take a look at Jake, he's standing next to the front man for the band, "Playing in Traffic" a local band from our little corner of the world.<div><br /></div><div>Jake was asked to sit in with them because their regular bass player was out of town. It was pretty amazing. The crowd was big, especially for a Sunday, what's more, the crowd was YOUNG, I mean young, most of them aren't of legal age to drink. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>As I watched them getting set up I looked around the room, there were many people that I knew and that I've known for years. One lady in particular was Linda, Linda and I along with Jake play in another band.</div></div><div><br /><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SVQu9rtLlOI/AAAAAAAADKo/XbUcGN0R7HY/s320/IMG_0128.JPG" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283899900051559650" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>We were sitting together remembering when our generation was the up and coming one, we were the younger crowd that was settling in and trying to make a name for ourselves. We were playing the music of our generation to an audience that was grateful to have kindred spirits serving up their entertainment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight wasn't about us however, it was all about the next generation. <br /></div></div><div> <br /></div><div><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SVQu_HMI_dI/AAAAAAAADLI/7uiki3GrEu4/s320/IMG_0136_edited.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283899924609039826" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div>As the band began to play, the crowd came alive, </div><div>they screamed and sang in lock-step unison, songs that I'd never heard in my life. It was one of "those" moments. A moment where I could actually feel the passage of time, I could feel my youth slip a little further into the distance.</div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SVQu-_AEmuI/AAAAAAAADLA/LONp_xNFjPw/s320/IMG_0158_edited.JPG" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283899922410937058" /><br />On one hand it was a bit sad, but on the other hand it was very satisfying, almost like we could rest assured knowing that our legacy was in good hands, young hands, hands that are ready to conquer the world in their own way.</div><div><br /></div><div>I teased with Linda as we smiled ear to ear watching the show. I said, "You realize we're out the door; right?" She said, "We're not out the door Trout, we just have to move on to the next thing, we have to continue to show them the way, we're not through, our role has just changed a little".</div><div><br /></div><div>Linda's a wise woman.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's really wonderful to be in a room with more than one generation of people, it's really wonderful to see yourself in the next generation.</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-20269183471963477932008-12-14T15:21:00.005-07:002008-12-14T16:05:13.793-07:00The day I first met the future Mrs. Trout.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SUWHgKCMGCI/AAAAAAAADFA/fE_2r3I5XE0/s1600-h/IMG_0004_edited.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279775124680874018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SUWHgKCMGCI/AAAAAAAADFA/fE_2r3I5XE0/s320/IMG_0004_edited.JPG" border="0" /></a> Check out my beautiful bride, all decked out in her finery. <em>It's hard for me not to drag her straight upstairs when she's in this getup!</em><br /><br />This crazy woman married me in a weak moment 24 years ago, what an amazing time we've had. All those years and two beautiful children later I can honestly say there's never been a dull moment, every day is an adventure, let me tell you.<br /><br />Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I still remember the very first time I laid eyes on her, what a moment I had.<br /><br />The year was 1977, a short, fat, red-haired, freckly boy was just starting his Jr. High School career, in case you hadn't guessed, that boy was yours truly. I was being given a tour of the school by a friend of mine who'd already been there - being a year ahead of me in school - Blaine Barnes was his name. Knowing my affinity for eating, one of the main stops along the route was the cafeteria. We ambled our way through the long hallway that lead to the dining hall, the hallway opened up into a rather large room filled with tables all neatly facing the same direction. The whole south wall was glass, allowing sunlight into the cafeteria. We walked about halfway into the room when lo and behold there she was . . . YOWZA . . . what a vision of perfection . . . she was leaning with her back against the glass, speaking to a friend of hers. I found out a bit later that she was an older woman . . . a full year older than myself. <br /><br />She was easy on the eyes, decked out in her Hash jeans and Frye boots, her blonde hair shining in the early afternoon sunlight, as we came a bit closer I noticed her scrumptous brown eyes and rather full . . . blouse . . . shall we say. In all my days I've never had a moment like that again.<br /><br />As we walked closer - me trying my best to inhale my bellybutton toward my backbone - Blaine did the most brazen, uber-brave thing I've ever seen him do, he stepped toward her and said, "Hi Jennifer, good to see you again this year". My heart skipped a beat realizing that Blaine actually KNEW this perfect specimen. <br /><br />She looked at Blaine and smiled and said, "Hey Blaine, good to see you" <br /><br />-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-==-=-=-=-<br />Now I'm not CERTAIN the wording of the greeting Blaine and Jennifer shared, but I remember as clear as day what Jennifer said as she first made eye contact with me<br />-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-==-=-=-=-<br /><br />Jennifer looked toward me with disgust and said the following:<br /><br />"So Blaine, who's your fat friend?"<br /><br />Ladies and gentlemen, the chase was ON! I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but nothing this good ever comes easy. The future Mrs. Trout had no idea the passion that lived inside my big body. It was only a few short years later that she and I said, "I do", but in reality it was that moment in the cafeteria had sealed our fate.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-60127476145374107122008-12-09T21:42:00.001-07:002008-12-09T21:46:13.543-07:00People tell me I'm strange.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/ST9I2iQKNZI/AAAAAAAADDA/FaW3YPm5s_E/s1600-h/IMG_0026.JPG"><img style="CLEAR: both; FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/ST9I2iQKNZI/AAAAAAAADDA/FaW3YPm5s_E/s320/IMG_0026.JPG" border="0" /></a> I took this picture from my desk at a job I recently moved on from. I sat at this desk for 6 years. The wall looked pretty much the same for all six years.<br /><br />I guess that in itself isn't all that strange, the real strange thing about me is I've eaten the exact same lunch for three years now.<br /><br />My lunch philosophy is simple: If it's working; why change it?<br /><br />As you know I shed about a hundred unwanted pounds a few years back and I really don't want to find myself in that condition again. So I've concocted an eating schedule that I adhere to with great care.<br /><br />I have an uncle who I worked with for about ten years and he ate the exact same lunch every day for the ten years I worked with him. My lunchtime regimen must certainly be genetic.<br /><br />I eat many times per day:<br /><br />Breakfast is a shake made of a scoop of vanilla flavored protein powder, 1 banana, and 16 oz. of vanilla flavored soy milk.<br /><br />I then hit the pool where I swim laps for 2 hours, 4 days a week.<br /><br />At 10:00 I eat an asiago cheese bagel.<br /><br />At noon I eat a MetRX Big 100 meal replacement bar, apple pie flavor.<br /><br />At 1:30 I eat a banana.<br /><br />At 2:00 I hit the weight room for 35 minutes, four days a week.<br /><br />At 3:00 I eat another asiago cheese bagel.<br /><br />At 4:00 I eat 1 oz. of salted cashews.<br /><br />At 5:00 I eat another banana.<br /><br />Monday I play water polo for two hours after work.<br /><br />Tuesday and Thursday I swim for another two hours after work with the Leopard Sharks swim team. My yardage total for Tuesdays and Thursdays is usually right around 10,000 yards, counting morning and evening sessions.<br /><br />I take Wednesdays and Saturdays off from swimming, I usually run or drag my tire sled on those days.<br /><br />Sunday I swim for an hour.<br /><br />I'm a creature of habit I guess?? <div style="CLEAR: both; TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a href="http://picasa.google.com/blogger/" target="ext"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: 0% 50%; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial" alt="Posted by Picasa" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif" align="middle" border="0" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-14540955209759335922008-12-07T21:38:00.004-07:002008-12-07T22:00:34.974-07:00I don't know where that bra came from, dear, honest.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/STyk_bOaY0I/AAAAAAAADBw/BAHB7P-yuGg/s1600-h/IMG_0012.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277274272918299458" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/STyk_bOaY0I/AAAAAAAADBw/BAHB7P-yuGg/s320/IMG_0012.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Say hi to Leo. Leo was the Blue Coyote drummer for a long while, super good drummer. I love Leo a lot.<br /><br />The band was at a little memorial get-together for a friend of ours that passed away tonight - John "Guitar Doctor" Renborn. We had a fun time, it turned into a big jam session with a bunch of musicians including Leo showing off their goods.<br /><br />I was reminded of a funny story about Leo as we played tonight.<br /><br />Leo is a newlywed, he and his wife Susan have only been married about a year. Right after Leo had gotten married, I think it was about a month after the wedding, we were playing a gig and above the stage at the place we were playing are some giant elk antlers. On the elk antlers rested several bras cast onto the antlers by boozy women enjoying a moment of craziness.<br /><br />The night we were playing, Leo had a friend of his shooting some video of us. <br /><br />We finished up, put our stuff away and headed home, it was about 2:00 am. Well, Leo and his new bride were unpacking Leo's stuff the next day when Susan discovered a <strong>bra</strong> in Leo's gig bag. It was a dainty little red see-through number. Very sexy to say the least. Susan was - shall we say - less than happy with her find. Leo tried to explain to Susan that he didn't know how the bra had gotten into his bag. I can only imagine the dancing Leo did trying to get Susan to believe him. <br /><br />I don't know how far a guy would get with the ol' "I don't know where that bra came from" story.<br /><br />Leo had an incredible stroke of luck, his friend who was taping us actually caught the bra falling from the elk antlers into Leo's gig bag, it was plain as day, no mistaking it. Marriage saved. <br /><br />Technology is a wonderful thing . . . sometimes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-28241922862816265872008-12-03T18:34:00.003-07:002008-12-03T19:26:07.206-07:00What? I didn't hear you.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275749629480250898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 268px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/STc6Vf0RrhI/AAAAAAAAC_w/tHo7tF9J68c/s320/Picture+043_edited.jpg" border="0" /><br />Man . . . I need some hearing aids.<br /><br />My hearing has never been very good. I don't know why, I blame mom and dad of course. I even recall way back in Elementary school having really bad hearing. Every year when we would have our hearing tested, the audiologist would be horrified with my results and immediately jump on the phone with my mom proclaiming my affliction. <br /><br />Mom would say, "Yeah, I know . . . he doesn't hear all that well".<br />Well, it starting to get REALLY bad. It affects my everyday life, my work and my social skills. <br /><br />The other night the Blue Coyote Band was playing a gig in Mancos Colorado at a lovely little dive called "The Columbine". It's been around forever, has a lot of history. It's a very cool place to play. When the band ends a set, typically we mingle with the crowd - most of whom we usually know - and have a beer and get ready for the next set. Well at this particular gig there were a couple of gentlemen sitting at a table enjoying the show and when the set ended, one of the men gestured for me to come to his table. Not that unusual, I figured he probably wanted to compliment us on our music, or just say say hi, it happens all the time. <br /><br />I head over to his table and reach out my hand, he shakes it and we exchange names. He's one of these men that speaks very quietly, well my hearing the way it is, if there's any background noise at all I can't hear a freaking thing anyway, so I leaned down close to him so I could hear what he was saying . . . .<br /><br />Before I could react . . .<br /><br />He grabbed my head . . .<br /><br />AND STUCK HIS TONGUE IN MY EAR . . .<br /><br />For the love of Pete; he stuck his TONGUE IN MY EAR?!?!?!?!?!<br /><br />I was horrified, I recoiled away from him and I'm sure I said something very tactfully about how I was flattered by the attention but he wasn't really my type. I know he got the message, he and his friend got up and left.<br /><br />So I took the first brave step . . . I went to the Ear, Nose and Throat doctor and said, "Doc, I think I may need a hearing aid". He patted me on the shoulder and said, "come on in, let's take a look". Even though I don't have my hearing aids yet, I already feel better about the whole thing. Now I just have to figure out how to come up with the money . . .Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-1024127581846285252008-11-28T19:27:00.010-07:002008-11-28T21:09:23.309-07:00Tom, we love you man!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/STCsDAypraI/AAAAAAAAC-U/G6yHoCqoVec/s1600-h/IMG_0013_edited.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273904331402882466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/STCsDAypraI/AAAAAAAAC-U/G6yHoCqoVec/s320/IMG_0013_edited.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Meet Tom Scott. Part time horn player, full time great guy.<br /><br />Tom is a virtuoso guitar player and gifted songwriter, he's gracious enough to sit in on a gig with the <a href="http://www.bluecoyoteonline.com/">Blue Coyote </a>crew every now and then to add his distinctive flair to our live sets.<br /><br />I get a call from Matt our drummer today (Matt and his beautiful wife Donna own a music store), Matt sounds sick, I said, "Hey Matt, what's up?" "You're not gonna believe what happened". he said. "Tom Scott was in the store today and had a sezieure, he fell down and hit his head on a toolbox then on the floor, he cut his face pretty bad and needed some stitches." I was horrified, I asked, "Is he all right?" Matt replied, "Yeah, he's all right, other than a face full of stitches and two huge black eyes, apparently he has these episodes every now and then, it has something to do with mercury poisoning" Matt continued, "Tom's really worried about tomorrow night, he's scheduled to play a gig (Tom has a solo act that's pretty awesome) at <a href="http://www.blondiespubandgrub.net/">Blondie's</a> and he needs the money to make his rent this month. I thought maybe we could cover his gig and make sure he gets the money"<br /><br />"Count me in Matt, I wouldn't miss it."<br /><br />Anyone within driving distance needs to hit <a href="http://www.blondiespubandgrub.net/">Blondie's</a> tomorrow night, have a beer and kick some money in the tip jar for Tom. We're lucky to have musicians of Tom's caliber in the area, we're double lucky that we have someone as nice as Tom in the area. Tom's done a lot for the live music scene locally.<br /><br />Tom, we love you man. Get better, we need you!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-41481443029590543132008-11-25T12:19:00.007-07:002008-11-25T13:15:39.791-07:00Dang, when was that picture taken?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSxRaRBZagI/AAAAAAAACyY/3w-laQEf2k0/s1600-h/212.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272678775431719426" style="WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSxRaRBZagI/AAAAAAAACyY/3w-laQEf2k0/s320/212.jpg" border="0" /></a> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSxRZ2tTYqI/AAAAAAAACyI/ohlPYbxy69I/s1600-h/3122.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272678768368116386" style="WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSxRZ2tTYqI/AAAAAAAACyI/ohlPYbxy69I/s320/3122.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Those of you who have known me through the years have seen a definite physical transformation, during the adult stage of my life my weight has fluctuated anywhere between 185 pounds and a peak of 312 pounds.<br /><br /><div><div></div><div></div><div>My mom is an unbelieveable cook, during my childhood, my love of food coupled with my mom's ability, served to produce a very husky lad. I was heavy all the way through school, it wasn't until I hit about 18 that my weight came down into the normal-for-my-height range.</div><br /><br /><div>I did it through exercise, mainly swimming - oh, that and not eating mom's cooking certainly helped.</div><br /><div>I did pretty well keeping my weight down all the way into my mid thirties, I was very active physically, participating in hockey at a pretty high level, and eating carefully so as to have the energy I needed to compete. At my fittest hockey condition I weighed about 200 pounds, which looks really skinny on my 6'-3" frame. I stopped playing hockey when me and the family moved to a tiny corner of Southwest Colorado, unfortunately I forgot to stop eating like a hockey player. My 8,000 calorie/day diet coupled with my slower-with-age metabolism quickly produced the 312 behemoth in the second pic, that pic was taken about 5 years ago. <br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>The pic on the top was taken this fall, it's me sporting about 212 pounds of muscle on my big frame. It took me 2 years to lose the weight and I've managed - through meticulously careful eating and rigorous exercise - to keep my weight down for 3 years now. The worst seems to over now that I've learned to eat for fuel and recovery. There are the occasional falls from grace, but I get back on the bicycle. (Hence the bike pic - That's me on my daughter's beach cruiser she named, "Deborah".) <br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>People who are locked in a struggle with their weight have my full appreciation. People who are blessed by the skinny gene - or whatever the heck it is that keeps em skinny - sometimes look down on us who have the food weakness, but let me tell you something, taking off and keeping off weight is a titanic struggle. Food isn't like smoking where you can quit and never touch a cigarette again, food is something that we must consume to survive. Learning to manage our eating is one of the hardest battles we'll ever have. <br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>I show the people I work with pictures of the fat Trout and they stare in disbelief, like they're looking at an entirely different person. In some ways they are, but in most ways they are not. One interesting facet of being skinny then fat then skinny again is you get to see how differently the world treats fat people, like they're some kind of an inferior race or something. <br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Remember as you go through life not to see people as objects, inside every person is someone that wants to be loved and accepted, and YOU have the ability to make that core need a reality.</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-63766910897186657732008-11-23T14:28:00.005-07:002008-11-23T16:24:20.756-07:00Mating Rituals of Large Primates in the San Juan Mountains.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnlCtRJVCI/AAAAAAAACyA/PG2YdR_biYk/s1600-h/Picture+020_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271996673487885346" style="WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnlCtRJVCI/AAAAAAAACyA/PG2YdR_biYk/s320/Picture+020_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />You guys want to hear a funny story? First off let me introduce my dad and set the stage a bit. The man you see in the pictures is my dad, I took these a couple summers ago when he and I hiked to Hope Lake. Those of you familiar with the San Juan National Forest will recognize Lizard Head Peak in the background of the top pic.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnNA1FrUNI/AAAAAAAACxw/1iXjOuL9GEc/s1600-h/Picture+006_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271970252948459730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnNA1FrUNI/AAAAAAAACxw/1iXjOuL9GEc/s320/Picture+006_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a> When we hiked it the first time we were caught in a lightning storm and subsequent hail storm that would seriously put the fear of God in anyone. The lightning was hitting the rocks everywhere around us, and when the lightning stopped, the hail started. We crawled into a bush in the middle of a pile of rocks, being above timberline that was the only "shelter" we could find and waited for the hail to quit, when it had finally stopped, we walked down the trail soaking wet sloshing through 8 inches of marble sized hail.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnNAbHHwSI/AAAAAAAACxg/2E-vg-cHFZE/s1600-h/Picture+001_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271970245975195938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSnNAbHHwSI/AAAAAAAACxg/2E-vg-cHFZE/s320/Picture+001_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I was pretty worried being up that high, A few feet over 13,ooo, especially with my dad who's in his 70's, and being so far from the car, about 5 miles and 3000 vertical feet. But he had a big smile on his face and when we got to the car he was no worse for the wear. Suffice it to say we didn't get any pictures taken or have any time to enjoy the scenery. We decided to give it a try another day.<br /><br /><br />Well, the day these pictures were taken "perfect" fails to describe the day we had. The temperature was great, the sun was shining, it was like being in a postcard all day.<br /><br />We had a great hike up to the lake, but the last 400 yards is a killer, it's up and over a steep granite peak, and being right at the end of a strenuous hike it was a real killer. We got to the lake and spent a couple hours hanging around, fishing, talking and exploring when we decided it was probably time to head down. During our stay I had scouted a route that was far easier than the up and over the granite peak trail.<br /><br />We headed off on my new found route which was really quite a breeze. It meandered around the base of the peak and met up with the trail where it entered the timber. Along the way my trail lead us to the top of a little cliff, probably about 200 feet high or so. I looked over the edge waiting for my dad to catch up when I saw a young couple enjoying nature, and when I say enjoying nature I mean REALLY enjoying nature. It was a scene straight out of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom meets Cirque de Solei.<br /><br />When I realized what I was seeing, I took a few steps back up the hill to give them some privacy and maybe prevent my dad from taking in the NC17 floor show. It was too late, dad had already been mooned. He stood on the edge of the cliff for a second squinting hard at the action below, then he turned to me and said, "What in the hell is that guy doing down there, it looks like he's naked and jumping up and down on something?" I said, "I don't know dad, people do some crazy things these days". With that, my dad seemed content and began following me to the trail again.<br /><br />We get a couple hundred yards down the trail when I hear my dad bust out laughing, I turn around to see what was up and he says, "OH, That's what they were doing." We sat down on the trail and had a real belly laugh. When we finally got back to the car that evening we saw the young couple getting ready to get in their car and leave. Of cousre dad had to say something . . . he said, "So, did you two have a good time". They smiled at one another and said, "We had a great time".<br /><br />With that we called it a day, and what a day it turned out to be.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-8161754393520693932008-11-22T19:16:00.005-07:002008-11-22T20:03:53.294-07:00Guitar Hero<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSjFjZ53sCI/AAAAAAAACwo/QRD6Lp3y0XU/s1600-h/IMG_0007_edited.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271680575876870178" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSjFjZ53sCI/AAAAAAAACwo/QRD6Lp3y0XU/s320/IMG_0007_edited.JPG" border="0" /></a>A few years back I took this pic of Jake, I think it captures him pretty well.<br /><br />Everyone talks about their favorite guitar players and the lists include Hendrix, Clapton, B B King, Vaughn . . . etc. Well you're looking at mine. While there may be others out there that are faster on the chromatic scale or get around the circle of fifths with more authority, no one has captured my attention more than Jake.<br /><br />It's pretty amazing being on stage with him, when he plays and sings, people stop dead in their tracks and notice. He plays that big black Gretsch guitar and his tone is meaty and full. Guitar players stare at his hands and shake their heads in amazement, girls of all ages stare at the whole package and smile.<br /><br />I remember getting ready to play our first big time gig, we opened for the headlining band at a local Blues Festival, there were 5000 people watching, I was standing by the side of the stage waiting our turn to hop up and play - I was nervous as a cat - Jake came to me and said, "See these people, they came to hear us play and play well, none of them want us to fail, they all want their socks rocked off. Don't be nervous, let's just get on stage and have some fun."<br /><br />It was supposed to be me saying that to him, I was the veteran.<br /><br />Jake had picked one of his favorite songs to open our set, however the band that played right before us covered it as their last song. Jake didn't want to do the same song over again so when our band got onstage ready to play Jake said to us, let's play something in "A", he stepped up to the mic and hollered, "AND AWAY WE GO", I don't even remember what we played in that set, I just remember people running to the front of the stage dancing like mad animals.<br /><br />I'll never be a Rock Star, but I'll tell you what, I wouldn't trade the gigs I've played with Jake for all the stadium crowds the Stone's have ever played to. Pure Joy!<br /><br />Thanks Jake, you're my hero.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-79237672929473196732008-11-20T21:32:00.003-07:002008-11-20T22:01:08.462-07:00The Redheaded Projectile<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSY6e1L44VI/AAAAAAAACvQ/CONmg_LbUSM/s1600-h/Picture+002_edited.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270964715231174994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSY6e1L44VI/AAAAAAAACvQ/CONmg_LbUSM/s320/Picture+002_edited.jpg" border="0" /></a> Did I mention that Jake and I play in a Rockabilly band? It's a riot - anyway - here's a pic of Jake snarkily posing in front of Brian Setzer's tour bus.<br /><br />The other night we're playing <a href="http://www.blondiespubandgrub.net/">Blondie's</a>, one of our favorite local nightspots and everything is pretty normal, people having a few drinks and thinking they're on Dancing with the Stars. <br /><br />Jake was belting out a beautiful Rockabilly version of "Gimme Back my Wig" it goes like this:<br /><br />Gimme back my wig, Oh honey let your head go bald<br />Gimme back my wig, Oh honey let your head go bald<br />You really got no business, honey buying no wig at all.<br /><br />One pretty boozy couple were really getting into the swing of things. The man was huge, he looked Samoan, he was dancing with a tall redhead in a white cocktail dress. During one particularly daring move, somehow the couple's hands became separated sending the woman flying into the stage. She went headfirst into my microphone stand, careened sideways falling off the corner of the stage, amazingly she managed to keep her feet underneath her as she listed out of control toward a table filled with cocktails in various states of being consumed. She made landfall directly on the table sending booze, little umbrellas and highball glasses everywhere. When she finally came to rest, she was seated in the lap of a strange man who was trying to act manly all the while blink Bacardi and Coke out of his tear-filled eyes.<br /><br />Without missing a beat, Jake stepped up to the mic and with perfect pitch delivered the following:<br /><br />If you're gonna dance, honey please don't slip and fall,<br />If you're gonna dance, honey please don't slip and fall,<br />You really got no business, honey tryin' to dance at all.<br /><br />Where in the world does he come up with this stuff? I was doubled over with laughter hoping the boozy Samoan wouldn't take offence.<br /><br />Everything turned out fine, I'm pretty sure the Samoan dude who closely resembled a beer truck was far too intoxicated to understand the new lyrics.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7775445513704692888.post-22202061254819550002008-11-19T13:39:00.006-07:002008-11-19T13:58:35.276-07:00I've locked my keys in the car and my family can't get out.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSR5w-AuSQI/AAAAAAAACuQ/s7bpodo694I/s1600-h/IMG_0078.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_g2UBMAHfiCg/SSR5w-AuSQI/AAAAAAAACuQ/s7bpodo694I/s320/IMG_0078.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270471346117036290" /></a>This lovely pic is one taken by my wife Jennifer during a trip she took not long ago.<div><br /></div><div>She called me yesterday from inside the cozy confines of her workplace, the conversation went as follows:</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: Hello.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Jen: PLEASE . . . tell me I gave you a key to the building.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: Um, no you didn't. Why do you ask?</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Jen: Well, I locked myself inside the building to finish up some paperwork. I was getting ready to leave, I went to the bathroom, closed the door behind me and the doorknob fell off in my hand. I'm locked inside the bathroom, inside the building.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Jen: Don't laugh, this isn't funny, I can't get out of the bathroom.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: Okay, look in the hole where the knob used to be, do you see a little metal shaft sticking through the opening? If so carefully slide the portion of the knob you're holding in your hand over the metal shaft, turn it and the door should open. Be careful though, don't push it clear through.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Jen: YES, I got it, the door's open, I can get out. THANK you so much, I didn't know what I was going to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout:: No problem sweetie.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Jen: Please though, don't tell anyone about this, I'll never live it down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trout: Don't worry baby, your secret is safe with me.</div></div></div></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06139238564437635813noreply@blogger.com2