What to Do with Old Class Notes?

I am not a pack rat. The periodic purge has never been a cause of angst for me. I prefer to travel light, and whether this is due to my upbringing in a military family or the byproduct of having my belongings strewn across barren acreage in the aftermath of a storm – “things” just don’t have a great hold on me. I keep that which has value to me, be it sentimental or useful for a future purpose, but it is no great trauma to let stuff go that meet neither of these criteria.

Virtuous words, maybe, but full of feigned vainglory. For I daresay that I must confess an area of weakness that undermines my claim: the archaic relics of my college education.

My remaining textbooks are non-negotiable. One, because they are “books”, and I don’t get rid of books. Two, each represents a not-insignificant financial investment, and the severely depreciated resale value limits the incentive. It does not matter that some have been unopened and unused in 25 years. It does not matter that a couple of them have faithfully served my needs as a makeshift monitor stand for the last 10 years. I’m keeping the books.

The problem, alas, are the binders and binders of class notes (queue Romney jokes here), spanning a variety of math and engineering courses, labs, and even those silly business and humanities courses they require to ensure each engineering student leaves the university with a “well-rounded” education. Most contain that wonderful, green-shaded engineering paper, now faded along with the mechanical pencil scratchings of a bygone era. I have notes for MH420, EE475, and EE530, containing countless complicated formulas I clearly used to know, but are nothing but mere hieroglyphics at this point. It is just further proof that I was once far smarter than I am now. I have copies of marked up homework and tests (thank goodness for scaled grades). Heh. A stray phone bill – I wonder if I ever paid that? Here’s a piece of paper with a phone number – a forgotten girl? No, probably just some dude wanting study help. A section of the school newspaper, announcing the resignation of Coach Dye – hm, I didn’t know I had kept that. Finally, a slip of paper with a small love note from the girl who remains my beloved bride to this day. That one brought a smile.

Flipping through these binders, a few have awakened memories. But with most, I find the dullness of a past so long forgotten that it seems alien, with words and scribbles that were seemingly produced by someone else entirely. It is kind of disconcerting. But enough. To the matter at hand: what value do these pages upon pages of Fourier transforms and differential equations hold? What value do these digital control and microelectronic circuit designs have for me at a time when I find myself doing less and less true engineering and more and more management of those who do? Am I ever going to do this stuff in real life again? Can I bear to toss them into the trash bin?

Ah, the mid-life naval gazing over decades-old class notes! No sense wasting any more of my time (or yours). The decision is made. I’m still an engineer, and the direction on my bias is set to “practical”. On with it, then.

Bison's Eye

Sometimes, you just have to get away. And not on some random airline. I'm talking about a good old fashioned, back of the station wagon kind of road trip. A good family vacation of this sort always produces stories that you can tell for years, or at least it should. Not wanting my kids to miss out on such an experience, last summer we loaded up the van and set forth on that utterly quintessential, cross-country family trip to the Grand Canyon. Holiday Road, anyone?

Long road trips are cathartic for me, especially if I'm driving. I am content to drive for hours in relative silence. While the occasional interlude of music or podcast isn't always unwelcome stimulation, I generally don't find it a necessity. Driving gives me time to process the perpetual jumble of thoughts inside my head. And this particular trip featured quite the collection of jumbled thoughts, as I was wrestling with the doubts not uncommon to a man in his mid-forties. Nothing dramatic, mind you, but the reevaluation of life's general trajectory at the proverbial half-way point seems to have become a frequent preoccupation of mine. After the first two days, I was feeling much better, much more settled in my spirit. But I digress.

The afternoon of the third day found us turning north on Hwy 89 from Flagstaff. The haze was heavy, muting the already earthen desert colors, but I was reveling in the alien landscape nonetheless. We came upon stretches of construction featuring one-lane alternating traffic that for the most part were tolerable, except for one where we found ourselves caught in a sudden, violent dust storm. I suppose there was a thunderstorm nearby, but we saw little rain from it. All traffic was stopped in both directions. As with any storm, sometimes you just have to wait it out until it passes. It always does.

From there, we swung over to 89A, filled up at Marble Canyon, rode along the base of the Vermillion Cliffs, and finally turned south on 67 across the Kaibab Plateau en route to the North Rim. The transformation of the landscape was startling, going from desert and haze to forest and blue sky in the late afternoon sun. Small meadows opened up on either side of the road. It was wonderfully picturesque, and my word don't do it justice. But my momentary reverie was about to be disrupted in a most startling way.

We were on approach to the small gatehouse marking the entrance to the North Rim, when I noticed a line of cars stopped in the opposing lane several hundred yards outside the park entrance. Further left, in an area of shallow meadow, was a herd of bison, about 30-head. That these people were stopped in the road alongside a herd of bison seemed to this traveler as not a wise thing to be doing. And then it happened.

As the gap closed between me and the line of paralyzed onlookers, from the herd came a beast, massive in size, with menace in his manner. He bounded along a path parallel to the road, and with a swiftness that defied his mass, turned toward us with head lowered, his visible eye wide and blazing. Like a movie cut in high definition clarity, slowed to half speed, I hit the brakes. Loose items suspended about me in mid-air, slave to Newton's equations, and slowly flew to the front of the cabin - GPS, phones, cups, snacks, and other various clutter that collects on a long cross-country family trip. But the van responded, nose dipped, and through a windshield that seemed much too close to my face, I watched as the beast passed mere meters in front of me, such that I could see the powerful flank rippling and glistening with sweat. And above all, the eye of my adversary glowering with an unveiled hostility. And then he was across the road, to my right. To my left, the standing line of onlookers, still not moving, jaws dropped in almost witless expressions and still clearly unaware of their imminent danger. As for me, I shifted my foot immediately from the brake to the accelerator, gently but deliberately leaving the scene lest the creature decide to take another shot at this mechanical beast that so threatened his herd. And in those moments after, as the passage of time returned to normal, as my pulse slowed and the nerve endings along my spine ceased to tingle, I could only express: Did that just happen? Did that really just happen? Even now, I can still remember with perfect clarity my close encounter with that thunderous beast. And his defiant, unforgiving eye.

In the year since these events, I have pondered and probed this experience for some deeper meaning, a way to turn what is merely a fun and thrilling tale into some sort of metaphor or allegory that illuminates some portion of this absurd existence. Alas, I have nothing. Nothing that isn't already painfully, ridiculously obvious. News flash: Bison are not tame, they are not cattle. They are fierce, powerful beasts that are highly protective of their herd, and will not shy from attacking anything or anyone they perceive to be a threat.

I have only this: A bison charging across the road always has the right of way. Always.

Words to live by, don't you think?

The Great White-Out of Midway High

What you are about to read is true.  Well, as true as the passage of 30 years will allow, given that time tends to muddy the recollection. Still, the story I am about to share remains a fixed part of my personal oral history, embellished only where necessary to enhance the tale and its telling. 
 
In the vast flatness spanning the horizon west of Grand Forks, one will find dozens of small, largely unincorporated communities with names like Mekinock, Gilby, Inkster, Johnstown, Honeyford, and Forest River. The first of these, where I lived for a time, rested 5 miles north of the runways of Grand Forks AFB, where on any given day B-52 heavies would fly directly overhead, mere hundreds of feet overhead, on their way to who knows where. Some of those flights featured crews that included my dad, but I digress.
 
On a lonely county road, in the relative center of all these townships, is Midway Public School. In my day, Midway was a K-12 facility, with only enough students to fill a single class for each grade. Indeed, had I stayed there through all of my high school years, I would have been in a graduation class of about 29. If I had to guess, I’d wager that this remains more or less the case to this day. The school features a hexagon pod for 1st-6th, and a couple of hallways for grades 7-12. We had a gym, of course, a real “shop” for woodworking, welding, and the like, and a big, curtained stage (part of the gym) where the pep band would stand and play for basketball games. From my home, the bus ride to and from school was 30 minutes – and I was the last pickup in the morning, and the first drop off in the afternoon. In my mind’s eye, I can still see it all – the gravel roads, the grain elevators, the unending flatness of the fields – as if it were yesterday.
 
Winters in this part of the country are marked by three things: frigid cold, bitter, howling wind, and drifts upon drifts of snow. Weather systems often drop out of Canada with frightening speed, bringing subzero temps, winds 40-50 miles per hour and even more, inches upon inches of snow, and drifts several feet high across the roads. This is a tale of one such storm.
 
I was sitting in class late one afternoon, English class I think, listening to the teacher drone on about something I don’t recall. To my left was a bank of windows that looked out to the parking lot in front of the school. It was an overcast day, but not unpleasant as far as that goes. As the clock turned slowly on its dial, it began to get darker, but there wasn’t anything unusual about that at that time of day, that time of year. Snow began to fall, and the wind started picking up, but again, nothing out of the ordinary for the northern Dakota plains.
 
Then it hit – a wall of wind and snow that shook the windows so hard that even the teacher was momentarily startled out of her monologue. We all stared at the window, chattering and marveling at what we were seeing. Or rather, not seeing. For where moments before you could see cars a mere 10-15 yards away, now was a wall of white. We’d had such conditions before, but usually they were relatively short-lived, and often looked worse than they really were (a good wind on a bright sunny day can grab the snow and blow it against the windows, creating a similar effect). This time, however, we were dealing with the real thing.
 
It wasn’t long before the principal came on the PA, announcing to the school that busing was being suspended due to the increasingly hazardous conditions. What with the wind and zero visibility, that was kind of a no-brainer. Students were to go on to their last period classes and wait for further instructions. The bell rang, and we went on, but with the buzz of adrenaline and excitement that comes with the knowledge that we were in the middle of something quite outside our normal routine.
 
By 3:00, the wind and the snow had only gotten worse. Some brave parents (or stupid, as the case may be) ventured out to the school to pick up their kids. But the vast majority of students like myself, dependent on the buses, were stuck. The principal came on the PA again, to announce that due to the worsening conditions of the storm, all students and teachers were to proceed back to their 1st period classes, where we were to in effect start a “new day” of school, regular schedule. Attendance would be taken. “Lunch” would in fact hit right about dinner time.
 
And so we did. Most teachers turned their class periods into a study hall of sorts, allowing us to complete the assigned homework from earlier in the day. One or two of mine continued with the next day’s lesson plan. Actually, it was quite ingenious, because it kept us busy (and contained) for as long as possible. Outside, darkness fell, the wind howled, and the white-out continued. Dinner consisted of grilled cheese, some kind of soup, and that chocolate cake mix the kitchen staff insisted was “pudding”. By the end of our second rotation through the school day, it was clear that we were headed into uncharted territory: they were keeping us overnight.
 
And then the party started. The gym was opened up, initially half-court for volleyball, half-court for basketball. Later, the volleyball nets were pushed to the side, to accommodate even more basketball. The pick-up games went on all night – and I do mean all night. Some classrooms that had AV equipment (TV/VCR on rolling carts) had movies, but I don’t recall too many showing much interest in that. One room had a computer, a TRS-80 maybe, that had one popular, hand-jammed BASIC game: Mow the Lawn. A few others may have worked on projects in the shop. But most of us wandered around, doing a little bit of everything, making the most of the freedom that came with having the run of the school. Teachers tried to chaperone, of course, but on the whole, given that there were fewer than 200 of us at most, things didn’t get too bad. The parents need not have worried about those poor kids stuck overnight at school; hanging out all night with friends, making the most of what was probably a bad situation, we were having a ball. A few people eventually did try to find quiet corners to sleep, but truth be told, not many of us really tried. At one point during the night, a couple of us went down the hall to the elementary pod to check on siblings. Most of these young ones had curled up to sleep in various places on the floor. I have no idea what else these teachers did to keep order down there, but I am certain they had their hands full.
 
By 2 a.m., the storm had finally passed, even clearing enough to allow the brilliant white moon to be seen shining overhead. Word got around that buses would roll at 7 a.m., as soon as the plows had cleared the worst off the roads. School was off the next day, of course. Sure enough, the sun came up on another frigidly cold morning. We loaded the buses and made our way home. And promptly went to bed. Well, at least I did.
 
Having lived in the South since the summer of ’86, I’ve seen what passes for winter weather here. Some years feature actual snowfall, a bit of ice, and the general disruption of life in a place ill-equipped to handle such things. And each time winter pays us a visit, I cannot help but to recall, retell, and romanticize the story I’ve come to call “The Great White-Out of Midway High”. For the better part of 24 hours, it was winter at its worst, but through the eyes of youth – the time of our lives, and a memory for a lifetime.

Star Wars Reboot - Yeah, I'm Ready

Ok, what follows is really my brother's domain, but man, I cannot help but to get a little excited about this. Unlike so many others, apparently, I'm a pretty big fan of J.J. Abrams, from his work on Lost as well as the Star Trek reboots. (Some of that, mind you, has much to do with the regular involvement of composer Michael Giacchino for the soundtracks).

Nevertheless, I have high hopes for the new Star Wars coming out in December:


It'll be weird dealing with the new faces, but after further review, that might be a good thing. I mean, Harrison Ford! Indiana Jones once said it wasn't the age, it was the mileage. If that's the case, then geez, the parsecs on that guy!

Southern Snow

Snowfall in Alabama is rarely a news-driving event, but every now and then, Mother Nature pops in to remind us that with weather, anything can happen. Beginning late yesterday afternoon and continuing late into the evening, she unloaded 8 plus inches of snow across the Tennessee Valley. Here at the house, we managed "only" 5 inches or so. Enough to play in, enough to sled upon, but not enough to survive today's 40-degree high.

So last night and this morning, we took advantage of the gift we receive all too rarely around here. You should be able to click an image below to enlarge.

Escaping with Copland

Once in a while, I need a little escape, a means of tuning out and tuning in. Sometimes I turn to books, other times I'll binge watch television. I tend to stay away from video games, due to a certain addictive weakness I've had since I was a kid (even moderation is tough for me on this one, all these years later). Of course, in the office, the opportunity to escape is nearly impossible without just giving up and taking a personal day. Be that as it may, on a day like today, I'm turning to music. In particular, Copland. Of course, the risk is that I get lost in the music and lose all semblance of productivity. But sometimes, you just have to. Today is one of those days.

So Copland it is.

What Is E-Walker's Parade?

Well, here it is 2015. The headlines are divers and depressing, and I have an opinion about most of them, but nary the will to write about any of them. It has been that way for most of 2014, and from this point in January, I don't see much changing in that regard. This alone explains the big decline in posting frequency on this blog.

I'm not entirely sure what that means for the future, but I do know enough to know that I am not ready to give up on writing, and subsequently, I'm not ready to give up on this blog. So to kick off the new year, perhaps it is time for an origin story.

I find it mildly interesting that in the five years I've been blogging, no one has ever actually asked me to explain the story behind the title and tagline of my blog. It is especially interesting given that I am an Auburn University alumnus and I have an elephant head background on the site (more indicative of that other school across the state). It is not that riveting a story, but it as good a topic as any right now, I suppose. (Cue wavy camera fade and harp).

Many years ago, I was working for a telecommunications equipment manufacturer that was struggling to survive in the post dot-com-bust economy. Leadership was making questionable choices, and the stock value was plummeting to penny-stock status. Yahoo was the big dog in those days. One day, I found myself on Yahoo Finance (not sure if that was the name back then), watching my company's stock performance. Yahoo had a message board, and thus began one of my earliest introductions to the morass that makes up the comments sections on the internet. Most of the posters were just bashing the company, purporting to have inside knowledge that they didn't have, and me - being prone to fits of righteous indignation - took umbrage. So I created an alias called "elephant-walker" (the origin of which I will get to in a moment), and while extremely careful not to reveal anything that could be considered insider or proprietary in any way, fought back against the haters. I learned very quickly that you cannot defeat haters, because the haters never acknowledge defeat. In the end, the alias survived longer than the company. Go figure.

So why "elephant-walker"? It all comes back to the job, or rather, my caricature of the job function for which I seem most suited. Some engineers get to design stuff; me, at that point in my career, my job was to fix stuff. Products would get designed and released to market, and then the engineering responsibility (feature enhancements, bug fixes, part obsolescence, quality) for those product lines fell to me. Joking one day, I came up with what is now the tagline for this blog: "Everyone's got a role to play … even if it is walking behind the elephant". Somebody has to clean up the, well, you know.

Before you think me too cynical, you should know that over time I began to wear it as a badge of honor. I carved a niche for myself in being able to come into a task, assess the situation, propose and execute a solution that resulted in better products and better processes. Indeed, a former supervisor of mine once told me that I had special knack at turning stinking elephant dung into fine, expensive stationery. (I told him then that he was seriously straining the analogy, but the compliment was well received).

So when I finally decided to create a blog in 2004 (it would take me until 2009 to really do anything with it), it just seemed to make sense to extend this online persona. I shortened elephant-walker to E-Walker, and well, elephant parades are a thing, so, well, there it is. E-Walker's Parade. And the tagline. (I like the tag line). The elephant graphic came much later after Google blogger updated its blog template.

And there you have it. The origin story for E-Walker's Parade. I trust that your day has been enriched by this provocative insight. No? Well, at least now I have a post for January.

If you will excuse me, I need to go clean off my shovel. Until next time!

Gone Vintage

As a GenXer, I came of age in the era of 70′s and 80′s rock music (classic rock and pop), migrated to late 80′s alternative for a while, then contemporary Christian in the 90′s. With the occasional exception, I really have no love for most the 90′s and 00′s in terms of music. Not really sure why, other than a general disdain for incessant dance tracks and anything auto-tuned.

Over the last decade, my tastes have gone distinctly vintage: Big band. Rarely does a day go by where I don’t have the smooth strains and top-tapping licks of Phil “In the” Blank and His Orchestra swinging in my ears, courtesy Pandora. Indeed, I’ve developed quite the fondness for bygone voices such as Sinatra, Crosby, Martin, Ella, Doris, and so many more. My teenage self would surely be revolted at this transformation in musical tastes, although I would hope he would appreciate the touch of jazz clarinetists Goodman, Fountain, Shaw, and Daniels.

I’ve always been an old soul (I was 40 when I was 20). It seems this has become true of my tastes as well.

I may be an aberration: I have no idea whether it is common or not to have one's tastes in music (and other things) change so drastically with age. I can live with that, so long as I can enjoy classics like this:

It's Marching Band Season!

Auburn University Marching Band 2002

It's that time of year. Schools around the nation are saying goodbye to the summer break. Students near and far are reporting to camp in preparation for the upcoming season. They head out to the field, they run drills in the extreme heat day after day, because nothing less than superior performance on the field is acceptable.

It's that time of year. It's that season. Marching Band Season.

I am a band geek. I marched in high school, and I marched with the Auburn University Marching Band. Today, I am a band dad for my son's high school marching band. There is nothing - nothing - like being out on the field week after week giving a performance in front of thousands, or tens of thousands of people (regardless if they all pay attention or not). I've marched on every SEC field (before expansion) except Arkansas, Kentucky, and South Carolina. Memories I will never forget, and a legacy I am watching grow in my own son's marching exploits.

So a couple times a week, and every Friday night, I'll be there helping to load, move, and unload equipment. I'll be on the sideline, setting up and taking down the drum major podium. I will rove the stands, passing out water, guarding seats, finding music, and stay late until everything is done and stowed. A few Saturday's out of the fall I'll resort to DVR'ing college football to accompany his band to marching competitions. I may grumble at first, but it all washes away the minute my eyes see and my feet touch the playing field. And if I get a chance this year, I'll march with the Auburn Alumni Band later this fall.

Because I am a band geek. And it is Marching Band Season once again.

On to vict'ry. Strike up the Band!

Merry Christmas!

From my family to yours, Merry Christmas!

For unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a Son is given;
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
And His name will be called
Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of His government and peace
There will be no end,
Upon the throne of David and over His kingdom,
To order it and establish it with judgment and justice
From that time forward, even forever.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will perform this.

Crooner Christmas

So, what shall we talk about? Heh. I don't have a clue. I really don't have much time to write at the present, due to an insane end-of-year push that has me working almost more overtime than I can handle. Stress levels run high, common sense falters, but of course failure is not an option, so it is full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.

All the more reason for me to find solace where I can, and lately, that's been immersing myself in the music of yesteryear while I pour myself into the final phases of my project. I've mentioned before my rediscovery of music from the big band era, to include a growing appreciation for the crooners of old. Growing up in the '80s, I had little to no appreciation for the timeless quality and true musicality of that genre. But I suppose tastes can change over time. I'm now that guy that thinks that most modern music sucks. Some of it is okay, I suppose, but on the whole, what kids listen to these days I can do without. Official Over-the-Hill Gold Card? Check.

Lately, I kind of feel like the Harry Anderson character in that old '80s show Night Court. A recurring plot line for the show was Harry's fondness for the music styles of Mel Torme. Here's a classic scene:


I periodically lament the lack of pure voice talent I have. To be able to sing like Sinatra, Martin, Crosby ... that would be cool. But that takes nothing away from the enjoyment of the talent and style that comes with those who can. So I have been flipping around on YouTube in search of crooner Christmas classics. Here are a couple of links, just for fun:

Mel Torme - Christmas Time is Here

Bing Crosby - White Christmas

Frank Sinatra - Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Crooning Christmas with Bing, Frank & Dean

Not crooner, but a big band rendition of Jingle Bells by Benny Goodman and His Orchestra

I'm doing what I can to keep the humbugs at bay these last couple of weeks before Christmas. So as strange as it may sound, I'm just going to croon my way into the spirit this year.

Until next time, keep it smooth.

Happy Thanksgiving!

To you and yours, I wish you all a very blessed and happy Thanksgiving! May you rejoice in time with family and friends, and enjoy each other's company, and find time to smile a little too. Be safe and God Bless!

Marching Fun From That College Band in Ohio

Today I was going to do a post about a tree (no, really), until I ran across the video below of the Ohio State University Marching Band. While I will always be partial to my alma mater, having marched with the Auburn University Marching Band for 3 years, even I can admit that the OSU band puts fun shows on the field now and then. So sit back, go full screen if you can, and enjoy the sounds and visuals of this Hollywood Blockbuster Show:

Aw, Yeah ...

A couple of years ago, I started listening to big band stations available on the internet, reigniting my love of the musical genre most associated with crooners, old time swing and jazz greats, and early 20th century radio and movies. I usually listen in on Pandora, which gives me a heavy dose of Sinatra, Dorsey, Crosby, Satchmo, and "(fill in the blank) & His Orchestra". I find big band remarkably easy to work to when I need to get into the zone at my day job. It also tends to improve my mood.

Every now and then, though, I just have to lean back and marvel at the pure musical talent on display. As a former clarinetist, I have a strong affinity for pieces featuring Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. Today, I just had to lean back and marvel at a more contemporary artist by the name of Eddie Daniels, in his rendition of "Sing, Sing, Sing". Below is an extended version that kept me in a toe-tappin', head-noddin' trance for about 7 minutes.


All I can say is "Aw, yeah …" Mm mm mm.

Wisdom from Wil

When it comes to labels, two of my least favorites are the notorious "geeks" and "nerds", terms of derision designed to ostracize those who fail to fit the dominant mold within any given social strata (or stratum as the case may be). For my generation, being a nerd had little positive connotation, and typically described anyone deemed ultra-smart, weird, or otherwise different and unpopular. TV and movies accentuated the caricature, and at times it felt like a losing battle to simply be accepted for who we were. Over time, the terms broadened, and took on a form a little less derisive - indeed, they were even embraced by those so labeled - for instance, I was a proud "band-geek" during my marching band days.

Fast forward to today, it seems some things may have changed. Middle-school students may still struggle with labels among their peers, but modern vernacular supports the idea of at least marginally broader acceptance: people get "geeked out" over any number of things, whether it be sports, fashion, computers and technology, academics (almost all subjects), politics, faith matters, cars, health and so on.

The video below is a segment of a talk given by Wil Wheaton, known best for his portrayal as Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation. A questioner asked him to speak to her now infant-daughter, recording some words of wisdom with regard to "why being a nerd is awesome." I found quite a lot to appreciate about his comments on this subject.


Viewed this way, we all have something we are "geeked" about. That love, that passion, that thing that energizes us, is a quality to be embraced, regardless if anyone else understands. Food for thought.

Closing thought: Wil Wheaton is 41. Just a year younger than I am. Feel old?

Afternoon Eddy

It began with a song that popped into my mind, without warning and without precursor. A song from my childhood, sitting in the living room in front of the record player. A fun song to be sure, and a bonus because it had my name:


From there it went to a handful of other Jim Croce songs, and then following the trail YouTube laid out before me like Reese's Pieces, I fell into old favorites by Crosby, Stills and Nash, America, Seals and Croft, and the Eagles. I even hit The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel (I like the cannon-shot sounds at the end).

I have a soft spot for songs of that era that tell stories, as I may have mentioned on previous posts on John Denver and Tom T. Hall. I was tempted to indulge in a certain Cat Stevens song, but as I have an idea for a future post involving that song and the memory of an old blue Mustang, I stayed clear of the silver spoon and the man in the moon.

I'm not sure anything productive came out of this afternoon's eddy, and I suppose that's okay. It may even be the point. But it is advisable to keep moving, so life won't pass me by.

A Change of Pace

I am not a runner. I've never enjoyed pounding the pavement, or the strain it puts on my knock-knees. I'll gladly run bases on a ball field, but running for the sake of running? Not my favorite thing to do. I have run on occasion though. There was the time one of my college roommates convinced me to go run with him at the university track. There was a whole summer right after graduating college, where I ran about a mile every other day or so to get in shape for a month-long mission trip to Brazil. And then there was an event almost 4 years ago, down at Disney, called the Race for the Taste. In an attempt to spur interest in my then almost 10-yr old son in running as a physical activity, we trained for a couple of months to run a simple 3K fun run at Epcot. That was in 2009.

Today, I hit the track for the first time since that 3K race.

I am still not a runner. Back in late January, I realized to my chagrin that a change of pace was required. One random morning, I stood on the scale and discovered that I was as heavy as I had ever been in my life. Call it a mid-life revelation or whatever you want, but I realized that at my age, if I didn't start to get control of this thing, I never would. I don't know if it is really true that it is harder to get in shape and stay that way once you hit your 40s, but true or not, I resolved that something had to change. And in the back of my mind, I kept thinking about all the races my brother-in-law and sister-in-law have run, the bib numbers they wear, the pictures of runners, walkers and woggers at the finish line. But I had some work to do first before I could even think about running.

The first step was to get my eating habits under control. Taking a tip from my wife, I started tracking my food using MyFitnessPal.com. Counting calories in this fashion allowed me to see what I was eating, and to make better choices about what I ate. Like cutting way down on sodas. Giving up my twice-a-week Taco Bell habit. Going grilled instead of fried. And it seems to have worked so far, for the weight has come off. Since the beginning of February, I'm down 27 pounds. This is important, because getting this weight off makes the next phase of this current fitness kick a little easier. I also decided to take advantage of some modern technology, and got a Fitbit. The idea here was to simply track my steps. I started parking farther from the door at work or wherever I happened to be, just to burn that little bit more. The Fitbit tracks my steps and syncs to MyFitnessPal. Being confronted with the data daily has had a remarkable impact on my eating discipline. I go over my calorie goals every now and then, to be sure, but far less often than before I tracked it. And I feel better. In fact, I haven't had a serious migraine in 5 months. Hmm.

My strategy has been simple. Phase 1 - change my eating habits and get some weight off in preparation for Phase 2. Phase 2 - get in shape. Just because I weigh less doesn't mean I'm in shape. Phase 2 will involve moderate weight training (Bowflex dumbells and a bench), and yes, running. The stamina has to come from somewhere, and because I have a desk job, I need something active that keeps me in motion. I could buy a bike, I suppose, and maybe someday I will. For now, running seems the most straightforward option. Getting in shape is the goal, moreso than arriving at any particular weight. I can live with being above my so-called ideal weight if I am "in shape." But I need a marker, something to shoot for, if I'm going to be successful in Phase 2.

I'm not a runner, but that fact notwithstanding, my goal is to be well prepared to do a 5K race by early fall. To help myself train, I bought a Garmin Forerunner 10, a GPS watch that tracks my run and allows me to see the results online. To make it more fun, the Garmin also syncs to my Fitbit account and thus to MyFitnessPal. I'm hoping that being able to easily capture and see the data will help in my discipline the same way counting calories has.

So this morning, I hit the track. My objective: two miles using a run/walk approach at 1 minute intervals. It was early, about 64 degrees and a bit muggy, and I had the track to myself for most of the run. I managed 2.09 miles in 28 minutes, using the run/walk method. This was bookended by additional .25 mile warm-up and cool down laps (walking).

When I got home, I uploaded the data from the Garmin got some really interesting data.

This is actually pretty neat stuff. And what's better, I actually feel okay, post-run. I had a protein bar prior to the run, and a small bottle of Gatorade G2 to replenish electrolytes after the run.

I'm not entirely sure when the next run will be. But I imagine it will need to be soon. In the meantime, I'll be happy with today's effort. But I still attest that I am not a runner. At least, not yet.

42

The answer of course.


Now, what was the actual question?

The Time For Debate is Over!

The battle has raged back and forth for years. Advocates for each side digging in their heals at the line of demarcation, each calling the other uneducated, one side elitist, the other side backwoods. But now we know, and the time for debate is over.

The GIF image format has been with us now since 1987, and remains to this day the most common graphical element in the Internet age. In 1996, this disturbing little gem made the big time:


Yet as innovative as the technology has been, professionals and amateurs alike have come to blows over the simplest of issues: how do you pronounce GIF? Is it hard-G (as in "get"), or soft-G (as in "Gemini")?

Now we know, and the facts are indisputable. By the authority invested in the creator of the GIF format (emphasis mine):

Since retiring in 2001, Mr. Wilhite has led a quieter existence than his creation. He goes on RV trips. He built a house in the country with a lot of lawn to mow. He dabbles in color photography and Java programming. He uses e-mail and Facebook to keep up with family.

He is proud of the GIF, but remains annoyed that there is still any debate over the pronunciation of the format.

“The Oxford English Dictionary accepts both pronunciations,” Mr. Wilhite said. “They are wrong. It is a soft ‘G,’ pronounced ‘jif.’ End of story.”

And that's the way it should be.

Comic Relief: The Government Can

For today, how about a little levity on an all-too-serious subject. I know some of you few don't like my preoccupation with socio-politics, but it is what it is.

So here's a Tim Hawkins special from 2009 that I somehow missed. Tim Hawkins is quite funny, and I suggest you peruse YouTube for more of his comedic routines. Enjoy!