Ice cream license: REVOKED

All this talk about ice cream sent me out for more today at lunch time. It was more high-priced fare, none of that custard stuff that my tubing friend suggested, and I was prepared for deliciousness to drip down my chin and stick in my beard. I got to Gifford's and instead of picking a flavor that has served me well for so many years, I was tempted by another. The specialty flavor of the day was Guinness Stout. I can almost see the connections in my brain.

Guinness= good
ice cream= good

Good! Good!

So, I ordered Guinness Stout ice cream. It was cool and creamy and had a beer aftertaste.

What was I thinking? I didn't want a beer aftertaste in my ice cream. It wasn't a Guinness aftertaste either. It was the bottom-of- the-cooler, happy-hour leftover, beer.

It was not the flavor I wanted lingering on my taste buds.

Therefore, I am revoking my own ice cream purchasing license. I am on thirty days probation. I can still eat ice cream, but I cannot choose my own. For the next month ice cream decisions will be left up to more responsible parties. This hurts me more than it hurts you.

You can't put a price on self-control

I'm pretty steamed at Cold Stone Creamery right now. First of all, they have now priced their small at one cent below their medium. ONE CENT! Like the guy in front of me said, "Why would anyone get a small?"

Why?

Perhaps because even the small is huge. It's at least two scoops of ice cream and then there are add-ins. I got a small. When they tried to push me to the medium, I said, "You can't put a price on self-control." I know I'm well on my way to curmudgeondom, but come on.

As if this price scale atrocity is not enough, I believe the menu is misleading. The obvious pricing on the left hand side, the side that I read first, is not the pricing for the items prominently placed on the menu- the signature creations. OH NO, that's on the far right. It cost me almost six dollars for some ice cream. I realize that is about the norm these days, but I thought I was going under five based on the menu.

"Holy crap." I said to the cashier, "I'm done for the summer."

Between poor menu design, and trying to force me into a medium-size, my trips to Cold Stone Creamery are done. I will get my overpriced ice cream elsewhere.

Strange days of summer

For some reason, I've been caught in limbo today unable to wake up and anxiously awaiting the results of last night's four-miler. I don't know what the results tell me that I didn't already sense, but still feel a relief now that they are published. With the results in hand, I can recount the rest of this diverse weekend.

When the whistle blew on Friday, I headed down to the mall and caught some Welsh musicians playing Welsh love songs. After a few rounds of sad tales from Wales, I went to a different tent of the Smithsonian's Folk Life Festival and danced to Caribbean beats. Those seeking more cowbell would have been pleased with the rhythms of six going at once. From there, I went to play some Ultimate with my rec league team. We were rolling until just after half-time, then the temperature dropped ten degrees, the wind picked up and rain started to fall. Nipping at the heels of the drops of rain were lightning, lots and lots more rain, and hail. The mad dash for the cars was probably my best cut of the day. To recap then: Welsh love songs, Caribbean dance grooves, and one wild little storm that brought plenty of tree branches down. I hadn't even made it to the bar yet.

Saturday left behind the power of the storm and brought forth the power of the Internet. First, I posted a few items to freecycle. These are the yahoo groups that put people in touch with others who may be seeking the very junk I'm throwing out. Within minutes, several someones had jumped at the chance to scoop up items for free. At first, I was quite pleased with this turn of events, but later after my stuff was gone and no human interaction had occurred I felt a little cold and wondered if I'd been used. I've gone back and forth feeling good and feeling unsettled about freecycle. I think I'll probably settle on the plus side, since stuff I'd planned to get rid of for months is finally gone.

The Internet was not done yet, though. I'd tried to gather a group to head out to run a four-mile race, but had not had any success. I was planning to get a Zipcar, when I happened to notice that one of my Facebook friends had included "running a four-miler tonight" in her status update. We hadn't communicated in a while, but I figured it was worth a shot, so I reached out and found success. I had a ride, race day company, evening entertainment, and best of all pie, all thanks to the Internet.

The four-mile race was a "Twilight" event, but the sun was still beating down when the started uttered, "Go". It was a larger race than I usually attend. They even had someone singing the National anthem. I worked my way into the third row and took off with the lead pack. I quickly found myself trailing twenty or thirty people moving fast. I had a race plan, but it was out the window. We were moving too fast for me and I knew it, but I was caught up in it. The first mile was 5:26. It was fast, but so was the course. The whole race was blurred by the hot sun and mounting pain. I would describe it later as "semi-fun" and that's all it turned out to be. The second mile was tougher, but I still felt like I was fighting well. I found myself using different muscles to try to stay relaxed and in the fight. I crossed the two mile mark at 11:15.

The course was two loops, so we'd seen it all before. I made it another half mile before my early enthusiasm started to catch up with me in force. I was passed by a pair soon after, including the eventual female overall winner. I struggled on and crossed the three mile at 17:00. The second/fourth mile had a slow uphill grade in the hot, hot sun, and they exacted their toll. I was passed by another. I tucked in and chased him, but could never quite pull even again. Pain was everywhere. With about 300 meters to go, I got nipped by another fellow and felt the footsteps of several more. I held the rest off for a finish of 23:10.

I ended up finishing 19th overall, 2nd in my age group (3rd if you count the 2nd overall finisher), but I have to say that I didn't enjoy myself a whole lot. I got a shirt and a burrito out of the deal, not to mention a race and a fun post-race evening, but the race isn't going on my list of favorites.

Meeting Collin and other vacation highlights

Having my vacations overlap was not my original intention. I hated to use up all that vacation goodness at once, but it turned out to be a fantastic plan. I got to have two very different and enjoyable experiences in one long week of near-uninterrupted fun. It almost felt like cheating.

The first portion of my vacation was with family in Colorado. Very little went as planned, but the trip was quite enjoyable. My sister, who has surpassed me in most ways except age, carted us around in her Tahoe. It was half a family reunion every time we went out to eat and we went out to eat a lot. With 8.5 of us piled into the car, we made our way to vacation destinations nearby like Estes Park. Estes Park is the closest thing my family has to a repeat vacation destination. We’ve spent time there during two family reunions there in my lifetime and my mom and aunts have many memories there from childhood. It’s a cute little tourist town with a mountain backdrop and the occasional elk crossing the street. It’s Colorado’s version of “Northern Exposure.” Last summer, my family took up disc golf at the Y camp there. This summer we returned to try again.

Some of us, like my cousin Tedward, have taken their disc golf game to new heights. Others of us, like me, don’t ever throw the discs and expect the game to come easily. The score card would reflect these two approaches to the game accurately. At least the scenery remained pristine.

Tedward was joined on this vacation by his friend Collin and I was reminded of the age of 17, one that at times seemed to be quite a ways in the rearview mirror. There were moments when 17 felt like it was a breath away, like when passing a waxing studio called “The Screamin’ Peach.”

Some things never change.

Home was still home, even when it wasn’t mine. My parents have carved out a nice niche and it was a wonderful place to spend some time. I got to see my niece, who took somewhat of a liking to me and shouted “UncleDave” when I came in the door. Although my beard was considerably shorter this time around, she continued to prefer that I keep my distance. We were able to stomp our feet together and share her playhouse, but reading to her was out of the question and fist bumps required parental prompting. I lost a few foot races to her, but I think with the proper training I can get her next time.

Clare and I scooted to Denver for a day and managed to meet up with people that we don’t get to see nearly often enough. It was a fun and slightly frantic drink and dinner. I would have liked more time, but was thankful for the catch-up time available.

It was wonderful to spend time with my family and a few friends on their turf and it made me want to do it more often, but as always it made me appreciate the life I have where decisions are made less often in committee and chaos is harder to find.

From the Denver airport, I went to be with friends in Texas. I was excited to go to Texas for several reasons. BBQ and tubing were my immediate goals, but I was also looking forward to seeing where Alan grew up. Early on in our friendship, he’d been brave enough to accompany me to Missouri and now I had the chance to reciprocate in some way. Finally, I would see where the fighting unicorns called home. The trip had many facets, as Alan had invited a whole host of his friends. I admire the way Alan manages to be inclusive in his invitations and I’m trying to pick up that skill from him in some small part. Many from DC couldn’t take him up on the offer, so I had the pleasure of meeting a contingent of high school and college friends. I’ve often been thrilled by how awesome my friends’ friends turn out to be. By now, I guess I shouldn’t expect differently.

Enough of the abstract, it’s time for BBQ and tubing. I wouldn’t have to wait long once I reached Texas to get to the two things I wanted most. Alan’s folks lived in a magical place not far from the river we would spend enormous amounts of time in. In the morning, we could walk down the street, dive in the water, swim the stream, walk another mile, and float down the river back to that original spot. The longest shortest river in the world was a dream for a lover of public transportation. No cars were necessary in the completion of this portion of the adventure.

I have never been a fan of tubing. It lacks the control and the speed which I usually prefer. Age, a few well-placed rapids, the community spirit, and other factors have made me into a fan of tubing, at least temporarily. One factor was my introduction of the proper way to enter a tube from the shore. Step one: Toss the tube into the water. Step two: Cock arms back and set feet. Step three: Leap into the air. Step four: Raise legs. Step five: Land rear-end first into tube-sitting position. Landing in the tube ready to go may very well have been the pinnacle of my vacation.

One evening we ate BBQ and headed to San Antonio. Alan, Doc, and I shared the expense of the Tower of Americas elevator and wind tunnel, before settling above the city to share the expense of frozen margaritas. Before and after the high-priced drinks, I found the famous riverwalk was more commercial than I’d expected and we couldn’t forget the Alamo, especially when our walk led us by twice.

Another evening, we went to Austin after a delicious stop in Driftwood for all-we-could eat BBQ. The sauce and the carry-out pie were delicious. I was happy as a bat bolting out from under a bridge. That’s not a saying, but the intensity and continuous nature of the 1.2 to 1.5 million bats that stream out from under the bridge on Congress in Austin was impressive. There was a cluster of them that stretched for miles. I don't know where the bats went, but I know they didn't go into the storm or to the bar. Those bats might have been on to something.

After Austin, the party started to grow. More people from Alan's past began to appear and more trips were taken by tube. Earlier in the week, we'd spent some time at a waterpark and then swam the river home. It was more of an effort than the tubing, but still a great way to travel. My feet weren't growing into flippers yet, but at least one of the tubing trips was spent searching for precious metals. Precious metals in this case being the alumininum of beer cans and searching in this case being the act of diving under water, opening eyes, and almost always finding one or more.

The proximity of waterpark and river meant that the inhabitants of the town, or at least the parts we saw, often shared a uniform. That uniform was topless men with bare feet and swimsuit clad women. The occassional flip-flop or wet shirt was also mixed in, but most people we saw stuck to the dress code.

There's a culture in the rivers I have been to before, and I had expected to see it early in the week, but it took the weekend to really meet my expectations. The culture is defined by aimless floating and beer. Weekday floaters tended to be more professional and less hammered, but the weekend brought out the rowdy crowds. We weren't quite ready to be rowdy and I attribute that in large part to our goals.

Perhaps driven by dreams of commercial success after some of us might possibly maybe appear dancing in a commercial they were shooting at the Tavern in/on/through the Gruene, we became ambitious in our tubing. Originally, we considered tubing as many as six runs in a day. The heat and some sense prevailed and we ended up going twice in the heat and once at night on this particular Saturday. The first trip mid-morning was much like our others earlier in the week, but after lunch the experience changed significantly. We arrived at the put-in to find tube to tube traffic up an down the stream. Giant two-person luxury tubes with built-in cooler space bumped up against traditional black tube after black tube. Some of the tubes carried supplies, a few even met the regulation 16 quarts or under size. Other tubes were built for supplies and carried 60 quarts of liquid ticket-inducing madness. There were tubes and beer everywhere.

We put in and joined the masses. The lack of available river real estate resulted in the somewhat regular experience of bumping awkwardly into a stranger. Sometimes this contact warranted comment, but often it was as if we were all algae floating on at the whim of the current. We linked up as a group and floated slowly down. Sun burns and tube pyramids went into full effect. I let go of my desire to paddle and floated peaceably with my fellow algae, sometimes dipping my head in the water or trying out different ways to roll through the tube. Some attempts were more successful than others. I could never match Megan's grace at slipping through the tube and moving into the full relaxation position. Instead, I ended up floundering in a tube on its side or splashing into the water.

The record-breaking third tube run came on an infamous night-tubing experience. Having enjoyed continued success and enjoyment from jumping from the shore into tube position, I decided to up the ante. Embracing the river culture, I planned to toss my tube into the water, make my leap, and open my Mike's Hard Lemonade in the air, before landing in the ready position. I tossed the tube and leapt. I popped the top and heard the fizzing.

Night-tubing is different from regular tubing in at least three important ways. The first is darkness. I'm not afraid of the dark exactly, but without my glasses, dark shapes easily blended into dark scenery and I found myself unable to find people on the shore or determine who was who. The hot sun is long gone and with it one of the primary tubing attractions. Also gone are the people. We were nearly alone on the river.

I hit the water and grazed my tube. I held my drink high as I plunged into the dark water. With my free hand I paddled frantically as I tried to get my lemonade back into the air and out of the river. Finally, I emerged to laughter, climbed into my tube, wiped the can, and enjoyed what was left, only fearing contamination slightly.

We spent lots of time in the tube chute and here again I missed better vision. I found myself facing fear on several occassions both that night and even sometimes in the day. I had no idea how comforting vision can be, particularly in unfamiliar situations. I see well enough to make out shapes and navigate through the world, but diving on my tube off a small falls or bouncing through the chute made me pause with fear. I don't know that vision made any difference since I survived each, but I was uncomfortable for reasons that I can only link to my vision. I fought my own fears, but I also caused some fear. Once through the chute, I came upon a diver. He had his head down with the light illuminating a small circle of river. The current took me right toward him. I tried to navigate away, but my foot still splashed through his downward searching light. He jumped up with a holler, saw me and said, "You scared the **** out of me!"

"Sorry," I laughed before floating on down the stream.

In the dark, with a drink, setting a record, facing fears, sometimes shivering, lacking good vision, I felt a tickle inside of me. I was either digging my vacation or I really had to pee.

Lessons on the trail
There were a few clouds in the sky and when they were able to muster up the energy they threatened rain, but mostly the threats were those of a weary father with little intent to see them through. We were hiking Old Rag in the Shenandoah Valley. My father was not along, but I’m sure he would have enjoyed it. The previous day’s plans had all gone up in flat tires and rain, but a cool breeze sliced the solstice and made Sunday plans look better than advertised.

Previous experience would serve to remind us of several lessons on the brochure-worthy day hike. Getting started is difficult was the first. For a mile or so our hike was spent in a trudging, heavy-breathing, fitness-questioning state. Then, as if our bodies had recognized the futility of fighting on into the nine o’clock hour, hiking became walking in the woods and the early trudge became nature on an incline with rocky footing.

When bike riding faded from view on Saturday, Alan’s gym served up a cardio substitute that had my calves and hamstrings burning. For much of the uphill walk, this was a minor annoyance, but when the scrambling started, my legs gave a little shout with each push off and landing. Even with the pain, I enjoyed scrambling the most. There is satisfaction in making your own way. Scrambling is exercise with puzzle-solving mixed in. There’s no definite trail. Each person looks at the rocks and the gaps and thinks about his/her physical strengths and limitations and then makes a path. It may be a path that many have traveled before, but the rocks don’t show much wear and it feels like blazing a new trail. There are tenuous grasps on hand and footholds and there are slippery sections. There are gaps that look too large to leap and others that seem to have well-shaped launching and landing pads. I find great pleasure in scrambling.

In the section that had challenged us the most last year, we came upon a father and daughter trying to navigate the tricky rocks. We waited for them to find their hold, but they weren’t keen on having an audience and helped us pass. Experience breeds confidence. The section was unchanged as far as we could tell, but instead of struggling for fifteen minutes as the father and daughter must have, we were up in two. It still took some pulling and struggling, but we’d been there before and we attacked with little doubt that we would succeed.

This section and another gap that I jumped reminded me that hesitancy can’t always be the policy. It was only by swinging my leg through and using my momentum that I was able to find my next handhold. If I’d tried to play it safe or creep up to the spot where I could get a grip, I would have slipped and fallen far short of it. Of all the lessons, this was the one that I sensed could be most relevant right now.

The last lesson was the most delicious and needs no explanation. On the way home, stop and eat ice cream.

Who is this guy?

I am unprepared for the grays that have entered my existence. In late late December of ’08, I did something that would be almost inconceivable to the 2004 model of me. I bought a cell phone. It’s a pre-pay phone and those who call me will tell you that I’m harder to reach now than ever before. I do send some text messages and even answer the thing in public sometimes, but I also tend to forget it, let the batteries run low, and check my messages promptly in a matter of days or even a week.

There were many factors that led to my decision, but none so much as cost. The cost of a landline on my own and that of a cell phone were nearly identical. Although I do sometimes stare inquisitively at the house plant that has replaced the home phone waiting for it to give me messages, I knew that if I was going to pay the same price, I might as well give in to the cell phone fad.

I railed in this space against cell phones, but now that I have one I better understand the challenges of those I’ve railed against. I still try to take my calls outside of a store or earshot when I can. I shorten the conversation as much as possible when I’m on the Metro, even trying to use the text message feature more often there. The one thing I do like that I never thought I would is the walking and talking. I’m sure it makes me more susceptible to getting run over by a car or bus, but it makes a lot of sense. Rarely, do I see a person I know on my way home. Rarely, do I speak to a stranger. It feels rather useful to use that walking time to make a needed phone call to my parents or a friend. It seems efficient, effective, and sometimes even rewarding. I guess the walking talkers knew that all along.

The lines of right and wrong, black and white, they start to blur. Now it’s ok to walk and talk, but not ok to walk and talk on the phone in a crowd? Maybe the line needs to blur some in the other direction too. If it’s ok to walk and talk, then it’s ok for someone on the street to interrupt the conversation? My rulebook doesn’t have the answers, but I suspect that I’m looking for some intersection of utility and respect for others. I think I also need to look in my rulebook for some everyday forgiveness knowing that rulebooks may not all be the same.

There’s more gray, but it belongs in a vacation post. I may not be entirely comfortable in the grays, but I was pretty comfortable on vacation.

John started it

Inspired by John's recent Blogging is fun? post and the generous comments, I decided to take a moment and reflect on my consumption of the Internet. There are five places I go on a daily basis- my email account, Facebook, John's blog, Alan's, and washingtonpost.com. Why?

I check my email multiple times a day in hopes that someone has written me. My inbox is filled with real new messages at a rate far below my compulsion to check. I've found that the collision of Facebook and my thirties has driven email traffic way down.

I turn to Facebook to make up for the deficit. Here, I find messages that aren't directed to me specifically, but might as well be since they are from my sister's high school friend and relate to her most recent trips across the country. This does not fill me up in the way I hope, but that doesn't stop me from checking back later just to make sure. Sometimes I manage a pithy little status update to entertain my 150 some odd friends. I sense the initial thrill of Facebook wearing off. It's nice to see familiar faces, but I find myself needing more.

I then check Alan's blog. He posts on a regular basis, and although he has taken to making his blog a workout journal, I find this a little inspiring. I usually end up doing some extra push ups on days that Alan works out. He also provides good tidbits on fitness, Ultimate, and music. I can appreciate that.

Alan's blog leads me to John. John posts regularly and with a nice variety. He provides entertainment, sports, and music commentary, insight into the leading edge of journalism, and some nice visuals. I can't go wrong there, although I do sometimes skim the American Idol posts as I don't know the players.

Next, I check the Washington Post. I read the Sports section, the advice columns, and any Opinion section or other item that leaps off the page. I'm very comfortable with my local online paper. I no longer miss the feel of the paper in my hand, although I do sometimes miss the comics section. It's just not the same online.

After the regulars, I trust my RSS feed to direct me to new content. I used to read a variety of friends' blogs, but many are now dead or dying. The Gig is still kicking and I follow my friends entertainment opinions there faithfully. Some side reading occurs at The Art of Manliness, but sometimes it gets too manly or too preachy. I was reading the Happiness Project, but now it's in Slate, so I catch it there when the Post sends me in that direction. For Ultimate related thoughts, nothing beats The Huddle. I mean to keep up with Gwen Bell and Inhabitat, but they post with incredible frequency.

I'm sure I'm missing something, but I don't have time to read it unless I stop checking my email or looking for my fifteen minutes of fame.

Melodic acid burn off
It may have looked the part of summer on the lawn of the Wolf Trap amphitheatre, but some things were missing. The bugs hadn't all come out yet. The spring chill in the air wasn't all gone.

I shifted in the lawn trying to get my body comfortable as the moon rose above the easement. Emmy Lou Harris, Patti Griffin, Shawn Colvin, and Buddy Miller were playing up front, but I didn't know the tunes. My aching muscles may have needed further justification, and I couldn't focus on the songs that didn't have a driving beat. Patti Griffin did sing a delightful number that tickled the crowd and included the line "Our love's a dud."

The mic banter was that of artists appreciating a shared experience. It helped me return to my shared experience of the day before. The voices on stage became the voices of songbirds and I found myself lost in thought, often about the games from Saturday. I replayed the way the DT and MB worked together. They were the offense in one stretch. MB seemed to find an extra fast twitch muscle to explode toward another disc that DT had launched in his direction almost without looking. They were playing at a different speed than the rest of us. It was awesome to watch and likely very special for them as their opportunities to take the field together have been limited in recent months. Shawn Colvin sang beautifully and only once did her notes remind me of those that plagued me on the loop of MovieTunes in my first job. Sonny came home a lot that year. The past played a role on Saturday as well as I looked at the top teams. It seems that the quality of play in the league has improved over the last few years. Where once each team had two people that stood above the rest, I think there are now three or four who are complete competitive players. I tried to gauge my own age in this consideration, but I don't think it's a matter of declining ability as a defender as much as it is one of growth for the sport.

Buddy Miller's role as the odd man in this group of women, reminded me again of the reverse we experienced at the end of the day. How could S play all of those points? She credited some zone, and others credited some stubbornness. Regardless, the women's performance was inspirational and it gives me hope that what we can handle might be more than we think.

I did focus some on decline while on the lawn. It may have been the mixture of sad folk songs that drove me to it. I don't think I'm supposed to admit weakness as a competitor, but I'm seeing them. I see them in others too. I don't think the decline is enormous or debilitating. I think there are even parts that can make me better if I allow myself to become a more well-rounded player, but there is a decline occurring. Too many discs flew over my head and too many pictures show my feet barely leaving the ground. This is not cause for alarm or reason to call it quits. It's reason to be like Emmy Lou Harris and bring together people we enjoy and do what we enjoy. I saw no weaknesses in Emmy Lou Harris's singing, but I don't think I would have been there if she'd been the only one playing. There's strength in bringing people together and making beautiful music. Or sport.